


Overnight

by AngelofDarkness1605



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-04-21 15:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 72,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14288223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofDarkness1605/pseuds/AngelofDarkness1605
Summary: Belle French spends a weekend with none other than the infamous and elusive businessman Mr. Gold for her highly successful television show. Eventually succeeding in getting her tight-lipped interviewee to open up, she discovers more about the intriguing man than she could ever have thought possible.





	1. Friday, 3.10 pm

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Dutch television show “Chantal blijft slapen” (Chantal stays the night).
> 
> Many thanks to Inkfire for the wonderful beta work.

"Welcome to a new episode of Belle Stays the Night," Belle French announces cheerfully towards the camera as she steps out of the van, yellow suitcase in hand, almost stumbling over her own feet in her enthusiasm.

Ignoring Ruby's eye roll as she continues to film, the young woman straightens herself and gestures at the driveway behind her. Beyond the closed gate and the trees surrounding them, the outline of a Victorian mansion can be seen in the distance.

"This weekend, I'm going to have a sleepover with Mr. Gold," she continues to narrate as she heads towards the rather ominous portal on the edge of the property. "You may not know his name, but as the founder and CEO of real estate conglomerate Gold Inc., he is one of the richest and arguably the most powerful people in the country, if not on earth."

"Belle, you're practically drooling," Ruby notes good-naturedly as she instructs her colleague and best friend to face the pale light of the setting sun, that contrasts nicely with the dark trees and the fence next to them. "If this show hadn't made us as much money as it has, I'd be afraid this would turn out more like a very long date than a program about the lives and homes of celebrities."

"I'm just excited, that's all," she replies, her eyes already on the house her next host lives in. "He's by far the most interesting person we've ever had on the show. I still can't believe he finally agreed to let us visit!"

She figures that this isn't the best moment to tell Ruby just  _how_ excited she is. Her friend may know that she and Mr. Gold have been exchanging letters for a considerable time—frustratingly impersonal, yet ever so charming and witty ones—but she doesn't quite realize just  _how many_ , nor how very much Belle enjoyed both writing and receiving them.

"Well, he's easily the most disliked host, too. I'm glad we've decided that we want to try and move on from the show after this season, otherwise I'd be too scared of the ratings to even consider this. For all we know, he might be using us to get some positive PR for once, rather than giving us a genuine look at his life and work."

"Only one way to find out," Belle replies, not deterred in the slightest. "I've been trying to get him on board for  _years_. We can always decide not to air this episode later, but now that he has agreed to host us for an entire weekend, I'm not going to doubt his motivations in advance."

"I admire your optimism. You never so much as talked to him, in all the months we spent planning this sleepover. Even Killian Jones personally spoke to you on the phone more than once before you went to his yacht."

"Yes, and recall how well  _that_  turned out," she mutters, her mood immediately a lot less bright when she thinks back on the rock star who didn't even blink as he groped her right in front of Ruby's camera.

"I'm sorry, hon," her friend says, squeezing her shoulder briefly. "Please don't get me wrong, I'm very glad that you've got so much faith in humanity, powerful men in particular. I just don't want you to get hurt again."

"Thank you, I know," she replies, her expression softening. "I'll be careful… or at least, as careful as I want to be. Spontaneity is at least half of the appeal of this program, after all. But in addition to that… this might be our big break. He's by far the most serious and high-brow person we've had on the show as of yet. We've already proven that we can create highly successful content, and this episode will hopefully highlight that we're also more than ready for more substantial and serious programs."

"Never mind that you've got a crush on him," her friend smirks at her, positioning the camera again.

"Ruby! I've never even met him, nor talked to him on the phone, as you were so keen to point out. I don't even know his first name!"

"So what? I'm  _so_  going to enjoy this. You weren't eager at all when you crawled into bed with some of the most popular and hottest celebrities of our time, and now there's finally someone you keep raving about. I can't wait to see how that will play out."

Barely able to refrain from blushing and clinging to her suitcase just a little too hard, Belle beams at the camera again and continues her introduction of the episode.

"Occasionally controversial because of real estate development in vulnerable areas, alleged safety neglect and investments in questionable projects, Mr. Gold has withdrawn from public life almost two decades ago. Despite these allegations, he's also rumored to be a generous donor to a variety of charities."

She takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself somewhat, almost jumping up and down in her excitement at the chance to get to know this man—and hopefully substantiate some rumors about him in the process.

"The daily operations of Gold Inc. are run by its president Regina Mills. I'm spending this weekend at Mr. Gold's home in Maine to find out whether he's indeed the beast his opponents say he is, or whether there's more to him and his company than meets the eye."

"Very dramatic," Ruby grins, giving her a thumbs-up to indicate that they successfully shot this fragment. "So Beauty and the Beast."

"Since barely anyone ever sees him these days, first of all, I'm going to confirm that he exists in the first place," she continues, ignoring the woman behind the camera for now.

The gate in front of her is an old-fashioned, if well-maintained and elegant thing—and firmly locked too. Studying it after she's made certain that all of this is still being filmed despite the earlier sidesteps in their conversation, Belle finds an old buzzer and presses it firmly.

She waits for a reaction with bated breath, almost shifting on her feet in excitement. Although she's been doing this show for six years, she'll never get tired of this, the eager tension right when she's about to enter the home—indeed, the very life—of someone else.  _This_  is why she and Ruby began doing this back in the day, with little more than a second-hand camera and a YouTube channel.

However, it becomes considerably less fun after a minute or so has passed without a single response, the portal in front of them remaining firmly shut. She rings the bell again, to a similar lack of results.

"We were supposed to be here at three-thirty, weren't we?" Belle asks, although she's already certain of the answer.

"It's only about three-fifteen now, thanks to your hurry to get here. He probably isn't expecting us yet."

"I'm not entirely sure of that," she replies, knowing from experience that most, if not all of their hosts are more than ready hours in advance, if only to make the best impression they can once Belle and Ruby—and their camera—have arrived.

"Gold is hardly an average host, though," her friend reminds her.

"True. But that doesn't mean I'll treat him differently. Besides, I have the feeling that he'll be yet more prepared than anyone else. He doesn't sound like the kind of person who leaves anything to chance, in my opinion."

Six or even two years ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of doing this, but Belle's confidence has grown along with the popularity of the show. Grasping the bars of the gate, she pulls at them speculatively.

"Tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking," Ruby remarks, not even trying to sound scandalized.

"Oh yes," she smirks back, casually throwing her suitcase over the high fence.

"Let's consider this for one second, though."

Belle hesitates, very much aware that  _she_ is usually the one who tries to talk particularly outrageous ideas out of her friend's head.

"This isn't just any actress or pop star we're talking about," Ruby reminds her. "This man is very rich and powerful, and probably rather paranoid, given that he hasn't been seen in public for such a long time. I mean, you couldn't even dig up a clear picture of him, let alone a recent one—and I know how much you tried to find out what he looked like before coming here!"

"Your point being that it might be a bad idea to climb over the gate of such a person," she concludes, her cheeks flushing at this reminder of the not quite average preparation she did for this episode… for this man.

"Exactly."

"I'd usually agree with you, but look around… it's deserted! There are no guards, no cameras, nothing. Only this gate… which isn't all that high or strong to begin with. If you ask me, this place isn't guarded at all, and there's no reason why we couldn't simply climb over and go straight to his house; surely he must be there, and he knows we are coming. After all, he  _did_  invite us."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Ruby grins at her, gesturing at the portal.

Not allowing herself to think that her 'reward' for  _finally_  persuading Mr. Gold to appear on the show might be their first uncooperative host in six seasons, she scrambles up the gate, designer skirt and all, feeling giddy despite herself. If there's anything she's learned by now, it's that moments like these make for excellent television.

She gives the camera a thumbs-up when she's on top of the gate, playing it up before carefully getting down on the other side. Once she's safely on the ground, Ruby follows her example, her overnight bag slung casually over her back, handing her the device for a moment before she makes her own ascent.

"Well, I can only hope that the rest of the weekend will go more smoothly than this," Belle says as they stand on the right side of the driveway.

She usually doesn't mind all that much when things don't quite proceed according to plan, if only because it often makes for a more amusing result. This time, however… although she hasn't been nervous in advance of the filming of an episode since almost the very beginning of the show, there's a fluttering in her belly right now.

Belle walks slightly ahead so Ruby can film her as they march up the driveway. It's not the most social approach, but she considers it a blessing in its own right that she can work full-time with her best friend like this. Although the camerawoman is never actually seen, she's most definitely heard, for she still provides the voice-overs. Of course, they can afford actual voice-over artists now, but this is much more fun.

The two women walk to the point where the driveway curls out of sight behind the trees. They expect to arrive right in front of the mansion when they get there, only to find that they only just got started.

"I must say that even  _I_ wish you had succeeded in getting his personal number now, so this billionaire of yours might give us a way to reach his house without killing our feet."

"He isn't  _mine_ ," Belle replies vaguely, distracted by her first proper look at his home.

It's not nearly as large and imposing as she'd expect from any guest on her show, let alone one who is said to be more rich and powerful than all of the others combined. Never mind that it looks  _pink_ , at least from a distance. Pink or not, she likes to think that the Victorian estate seems welcoming, even if its owner currently does not.

For a moment, she regrets choosing more… impractical heels than usual for this weekend. Glancing mischievously at the camera, she steps out of her shoes and takes them in her hand before continuing their walk in the grass next to the driveway, at a brisker pace than before.

After all, she's heading to an extremely private man who is inviting two women into his house to make a television show, a billionaire who lives in a seemingly barely protected and not overly impressive property. It's a mystery to be uncovered, and if there's anything that Belle loves, both in their show and beyond, it's the opportunity to peel layers away.


	2. Friday, 4.05 pm

Her heart is beating rapidly in her chest when she rings the doorbell of Mr. Gold's house, her adrenaline more due to the man she's about to meet than the exertion of walking all this way. He opens the door almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting right behind it for the very moment of their arrival… except for the fact that he just looks at them in shock when he spots them on his porch.

Belle herself is in a very similar state as she stares right back at him, momentarily forgetting that she's supposed to do her usual introduction now—and that Ruby is filming all of this. In the months—years—she spent trying to get him on their show, and given their far from welcoming reception so far, she expected the mysterious businessman to be aloof, rather bitter and… well, older, albeit fascinating.

The man opposite her, however—the one whose home and life she'll be sharing this weekend—looks like he's only in his early fifties, wearing a doubtlessly tailored but not flashy suit. He's visibly on guard, but his eyes are the warmest and deepest shade of brown she's ever seen. He is leaning on a cane, which he holds onto rather tightly, and his hair is longer than expected, the gray in it not yet overtaking its brown color.

All things considered, the individual she's going to interview and spend almost three days with is not only mysterious—it turns out that he's gorgeous as well.

"Did you… how did you get here?" he asks rather hoarsely, as if he didn't normally use his voice all that much.

She detects a faint hint of a foreign accent—Scottish?—that makes him seem yet more intoxicating to her. Her suspicion that he purposefully kept his doors shut to them is squashed by his confusion.

"We climbed over the gate and walked here, since it didn't open when we rang and I don't have your personal phone number," she replies, gesturing at the high heels she's still carrying in her hand. "Our apologies for being late."

"You don't have to… I am the one who is sorry. I didn't hear the buzzer, although I was right next to…" He falters, giving her the chance to process her surprise that he doesn't seem to have people to take care of such things… and that he's implying he was alertly awaiting their arrival. "I obviously would have opened the gate immediately, had I known that you were there. It isn't used much, and the buzzer must have gotten damaged without my realizing."

He winces as he looks at her bare and by now rather muddy feet, and so does Belle herself, glancing at the pristine floor of his hallway. All the time his eyes are lingering on her feet, she feels as if she'd taken off a whole lot more than just her shoes… and she can't help but quite like that sensation.

"Please, come in," he says at length, opening the door further.

With an apologetic look at him, Belle accepts that invitation, making her steps as wide as she can without making a complete fool of herself—not more so than she's already done, at least. Of course, there's no way she can actually avoid touching the smooth wooden floor with her grimy feet, but to her surprise, their host doesn't seem to care or even notice.

When she steps closer to him, she notices that he doesn't only look and sound wonderful, but he also smells that way.

"Why don't you sit down in the kitchen?" he suggests, pointing at a room adjacent to the hallway with a strangely nervous gesture. "I'll get you some water so you can freshen up."

Although she finds his way of putting this far too forgiving, she is happy to settle at the surprisingly small table in a corner of the also perfectly clean room. Despite its tidiness, it's by far the most cramped kitchen she's ever seen. It's as if just about every flat surface was occupied by a wide range and variety of knick-knacks, making it appear more like a museum of sorts than a place where people actually eat.

She can't wait to examine all of those items… and the man who surrounds himself with them.

Now that she thinks of it, the almost impossible quantity of stuff per square feet extends to his living room, which she can partially see from the open kitchen. Glancing at Ruby, she's pleased to find that she's enthusiastically filming everything—something else Mr. Gold doesn't appear to realize just yet.

He is busy filling a bucket of water at the sink, as if he were some sort of assistant—hers, that is—rather than a billionaire. So far, his premises have been surprisingly empty of employees, and any reference to family members, for that matter.

Usually, she'd immediately ask whether he's got any staff—or a partner and children living with him, for as far as such information isn't common knowledge—but that doesn't feel like a good approach right now.

She's barely been in his house for five minutes, and already this weekend is unlike any she's experienced so far. Best to be patient, get a better understanding of the situation—of him—and carefully polish her list of questions in the meantime.

Then again, it's hard to think rationally at all when he carries the clearly rather heavy bucket towards her. Her own ex-fiancé wouldn't have handed her book to her if it lay right next to him, and here is this powerful, mobility-impaired billionaire, bringing her water like he's some sort of servant.

"You don't have to…" she hurriedly says as he struggles, the heavy container in one hand and his cane in the other.

He shakes his head roughly, clearly not wanting her to mention his limitations. That's how she finds herself unable to do anything but watch as Mr. Gold carefully places the bucket of water right next to her feet, handing her a cloth and a very fluffy-looking towel to boot.

"Thank you, this is very generous," she says after a few seconds of silence, her brain catching up.

"It's the least I could do after receiving you in such a shameful fashion."

Very much aware that the least she can do is wash her feet and try to get this sleepover slightly back to normal, she falters again when he remains standing in front of her. Looking down at her without ever taking his eyes off, he's doubtlessly counting down to the moment when she's made herself more presentable for the show she kept pestering him about throughout the years.

The problem is that elegantly washing her own feet in this position would be a challenge in any circumstances, let alone with the most powerful and handsome she's ever met watching her.

In addition to that, when she put on this skirt and blouse earlier this afternoon, she didn't exactly have in mind her own modesty in circumstances like these.

Climbing over a gate while Ruby is purposefully choosing the least unflattering angle is one thing, but to avoid revealing any more of herself to this meticulous and presumably solitary stranger, after already making such a messy entrance…

Just when she's beginning to think that there's no way she can clean herself up without it turning into a humiliation, it turns out that she doesn't have to worry about this… or at least, not about doing it herself.

Her mouth falls open in surprise when Mr. Gold sinks to his knees right in front of her, like she is some sort of goddess and he her loyal worshiper. Never mind that he initially reminded her of a servant… this makes her almost feel as though he were hers.

He reaches for her feet where she placed them in the warm water, only to withdraw abruptly right before actually touching her, as if horrified by his own implicit offer.

"I'm sorry, Miss French, I shouldn't…"

"No, it's all right," she murmurs, very much intrigued.

She is a whole lot more than that when he takes her foot in his hand and brings towards it the soft cloth he's holding in the other. As if that wasn't wonderful enough yet, there's a soap of sorts in the water that makes the very air around them smell like they're in some kind of dream.

"If you're certain…"

When Belle nods, he begins to wash her with more care than she could have expected from anyone, let alone a man like him. Indeed, he touches her more tenderly and intimately than anyone has done in a long time, if ever.

He slowly swipes the cloth up and down her lower leg and along the soles and sides of both her feet. He obviously can't be enjoying this—but she'd almost think that he somehow is. His fingertips are surprisingly calloused, and she distantly wonders what might have caused that.

All jokes of luxurious spas are forgotten when she sinks against the back of her chair and he subsequently takes her lower legs lightly in his free hand, one by one, to keep them steady. Closing her eyes and sighing with utter contentment, forgetting all about her show for a while, she savors his attentions.

"As good as new," he announces, withdrawing from her far sooner than she'd like, especially now that his voice has gotten all throaty again.

But thankfully, it turns out that this bliss isn't over yet, for he continues to dry her feet as if it were only normal for him to place them on the towel on his knee. Dabbing the skin with the equally fluffy edges of the cloth, he all but caresses her between her toes, leaving her unable to hold back a groan.

As if all of that wasn't mesmerizing enough yet, he questioningly offers her heels back once he is done with his self-imposed task. Breathlessly, she slips her foot back into one of them, prompting him to secure the straps again. His fingers brush against her skin as he does so, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Well, that more than makes up for that broken buzzer at the gate," she remarks, finding that her own voice is also rather rough.

"I'm glad," he says, shifting away from her rather quickly, as if belatedly fully realizing what he has done—and feeling shocked by his own actions.

But as he tries to get up, he stumbles, wincing in discomfort. Recalling his cane and wondering what causes him to have to use it, she is particularly bewildered—and yet more pleased—by what he just did for her.

"Let me help," she says, offering him her hand as she stands up.

"I couldn't possibly…"

"Of course you can," she murmurs, not seeing why he doesn't accept her assistance straight away, especially considering his own recent actions.

He looks at her with something like trepidation, as if nothing good could possibly come out of this. That doesn't change when he takes her hand after all and allows her to help him back on his feet, his cheeks actually appearing to color at the contact.

"I appreciate this very much, Miss French," he says, as if she were the one who had just got down on her knees in front of him and turned a functional if personal task into such a sensual experience.

Very much aware that he hasn't let go of her hand, that he is blushing and that they might well remain standing there for a very long time if someone doesn't move, Belle—reluctantly—is the one who eventually breaks the moment.

He clears his throat as she does so, as though he'd only then become fully aware of how still they were, staring at each other. He immediately steps away, as if needing to distance himself from her and what they just shared.

Looking at Ruby, she finds that her friend's eyebrows have migrated to a point almost above her hairline. Mr. Gold must have followed her gaze, for he shuffles awkwardly on his feet, clutching at his cane. Seeing how tense he is after doing something so utterly spontaneous only makes her more enchanted.

"I suppose you'd like a tour of the house?" he asks, gesturing in the direction of the living room and the staircase that can be seen at the end of it.

"That would be lovely, yes," Belle beams, looking forward to seeing more of the fascinating house—and, hopefully, learning a lot more about its inhabitant in the process.


	3. Friday, 4.35 pm

"I presume that introductions are also in order," Mr. Gold remarks, right before he can begin the tour of his house.

"You're absolutely right," Belle says, inwardly reminding herself to focus.

Even though the show usually only improves when things don't go exactly according to plan—especially after they have aired five seasons of it already—she's so bewildered by this man's reception of them that what they've shot so far hardly resembles their program at all.

But since it's only the three of them, there isn't all that much to introduce. Then again, since he's by now better acquainted with her feet than with any other part of her, a less unorthodox approach is indeed long overdue. Although her awareness that he's discreetly wiping his palms on his impeccable trousers will probably make this all but normal for her, as well.

"The name is Gold," he continues, offering her his hand. "As you know, of course."

"Belle French," she replies, shaking his still rather clammy hand and not failing to notice that he hasn't shared his first name. "Which you also already know, if only because I sent you so many letters."

In her enthusiasm at finally actually being here, she'd momentarily forgotten that the man not only didn't give her a phone call, he didn't e-mail or text her either. Instead, he corresponded with her through letters—handwritten ones, as if he were still living in the twentieth century.

Dozens of letters, even.

Given what she's witnessed of the interior of his house so far, he might as well be living in a whole other era indeed. Also, he's got the most gorgeous handwriting she's ever seen… and his words never ceased to amuse her, to make her smile or even chuckle out loud, even though they were frustratingly void of information.

"Yes, I know," he breathes, still holding onto her hand once more. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss French."

"Likewise," she murmurs, lost in his deep eyes all over again.

She's probably never been this long in the house of a host without receiving a tour, and yet she still isn't any closer to finding out his first name. On top of that, her own palm is becoming rather damp as well, and this is going to be a very boring episode if she keeps getting so wholly distracted by him.

"And you must be Miss Lucas," he says, after blinking a few times and pulling himself away from her with apparent force.

"That's me, yeah, if you want to be all formal about it," Ruby replies, waving at him from behind the camera. "Thanks for having us. Belle is very happy to be here."

She shoots her friend a warning look. While she's pleased that Mr. Gold is one of the few hosts who bother acknowledging the woman behind the camera, she didn't mean for Ruby to take the first chance she gets to hint at her fascination with their current host.

"So am I," he whispers, so softly that she isn't certain she heard him correctly, considering how much effort and persuasion it took to be invited by him in the first place.

Indeed, she feels quite sure that she must have misheard him when he abruptly withdraws his hand from hers and launches into the most detached tour of a house she's ever had. It doesn't prevent her from eagerly taking in the rooms he shows them, mesmerized by all the antiques and lovely nooks her eyes are falling on.

If there ever was a house which is simply meant to be enjoyed with a book in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other, this must be it. She can't help but think it feels like home, despite its increasingly aloof owner. Especially when he leads them to a room at the end of the hallway on the ground floor, which turns out to contain the most beautiful and inviting private library she's ever laid eyes on.

Her mouth falls open when she spots the hearth and the cozy cushions on the chaise lounge, and of course the many, many books that are only barely kept upright by the ancient-looking shelves. She sighs happily, her feet carrying her to one of those on their own accord. She reverently trails her fingers down a few of the spines, noting that all of them are carefully treated but clearly much read—and immediately noticing some of her own favorites in his collection.

"This is so beautiful," she murmurs, finding herself wishing she had such a library herself, the countless books almost seeming to glow in the last rays of sunlight.

"Breathtaking, yes."

Belle doesn't notice how he practically shivers as she caresses his books, nor the way he solely looks at her when commenting on the beauty of the library. Ruby does, however, capturing it all on camera.

"Feel free to spend as much time as you like here, Miss French."

"That's very generous of you, Mr. Gold, and your offer is much appreciated. But I'm here for you, not your books, lovely as they might be."

"I see," he replies, rather tense again. "Let's continue the tour, shall we?"

He guides them up the stairs, their progression quite slow as he makes his way up one step at a time, his cane hooked around his forearm. The staircase isn't free of doubtlessly valuable and antique items either, which makes the absence of actual people in the house yet more noticeable after a while. She can imagine him not living with any family members, but for a man of his fortune to have no staff around… that is practically unheard of.

Indeed, it's probably as unusual to find a billionaire who doesn't appear to own a mobile phone, or any modern appliances for that matter. Even the fridge in his kitchen wouldn't look out of place in the previous century.

Before she can try asking about any of that, they arrive at the landing, where he pointedly ignores the first door they encounter. In preparation for each and every one of their sleepovers, she always inquires in advance whether there are any rooms where their hosts don't want her to go, either with Ruby at her side or when she does a bit of snooping around on her own.

This room wasn't on his list, however—in fact, none of the spaces in his house were, which also surprised her, considering how reluctant he'd been to let them visit him for a weekend to begin with. She mentally marks its location, determined to return sooner rather than later.

"This will be your room, if it is to your liking," he tells her as they approach the next door.

Belle gasps in delight when he opens it, revealing a sizable chamber that's just as frozen in time as the rest of the house. The colors are bold but warm, the bed in the middle looking comfortable, if rather dated. As if all of that wasn't lovely enough, there is a bookcase between it and one of the large windows that look out on the forest.

Sighing wistfully, she takes in the cushions on the deep windowsill, very easily imagining herself spending hours at a time reading in that lovely spot.

"It's beautiful," she says when she finds him looking at her rather nervously, as if he were genuinely afraid she might disapprove of the place. "It will be a pleasure to stay here."

"I'm glad. Please don't hesitate to ask if there's anything you require during your visit."

"I will," she says, not surprised but still rather bewildered at this point that he isn't asking her to refer to anyone but himself in such moments.

"The room for Miss Lucas is next door," he goes on, gesturing at the space in question.

They follow him there and Belle is pleased to find that her friend's room is very much like her own, although it lacks a bookcase. More than once, some hosts forgot that their visit would include two persons, not just the one who actually appears on television. It has led to many an awkward occasion, but Mr. Gold doesn't disappoint in this area either.

"Please don't hesitate to ask if there's anything…"

He falters when directing these words at Ruby, as if belatedly realizing that he used the exact same ones mere seconds ago.

"Is there any wifi?" she retorts, looking at him through her camera.

"… what?" he asks, sounding—and appearing—genuinely confused.

"Never mind that," Belle intervenes, not wanting him to be yet more on his guard.

They pass the unopened door on the landing again as they make their way to the other side of the first floor. He still makes no comment on it. Then there is another closed door which he briskly walks past, heading towards the last one in the hallway—only to linger between the two.

"Come on Gold, I'm sure Belle would love to see your bedroom," her friend comments, realizing as the same time as she does what this last room must be… and why he is hesitating.

"Ruby," Belle hisses, wondering what on earth is possessing her to say this, let alone in such a tone.

Never mind that she is interacting more than is necessary with the host—more than she has in any other sleepover. It will bring difficulties in the editing process, since she is supposed to be heard only as the voice-over in the episodes. What bothers her most, though, is that Ruby is interfering in her personal relationship with Mr. Gold, not noticing—or caring—that it is making him uncomfortable… making them both uncomfortable, actually.

"I'm certain she does not," he mutters, slightly agitated.

"I'm happy to see whatever part of the house you are willing to show us," she says softly, hoping to put him at ease again.

To underscore her words, she lightly places her arm on his bicep, only for him to tear himself away from her as if burned.

"I'm sorry!" she cries, horrified that her touch evoked such a negative reaction within him.

"It's quite all right," he says, although he sounds far from fine. "Let's move on. There's something else here that will probably be of a lot more interest to you than an old man's bedroom."

Ruby raises an eyebrow in speculation as they follow their host back to the staircase. Over a second, much narrower set of steps, he leads them to the attic, which turns out to cover just about the entire surface of the house. She's rarely seen such a large space within a home before, let alone one that is filled with so much furniture and antiques.

In any other house, she'd love to spend hours here, going through all these items, and hopefully getting their host to talk about each and every one of them. But right now, in this particular house with this particular man, it pales in comparison to what they've seen already… and potentially, what they've not seen.

"It's mostly junk, really," he says without a trace of irony, "I should throw it away, but… I get attached. Feel free to take a look there later, if you want."

The way he says 'take a look' makes it sounds like he knows exactly how often she finds herself wishing she could roam around in houses unaccompanied during the sleepovers… as well as the fact that this is exactly the kind of place where she'd usually love to do so.

"Let's conclude the tour in the basement," he continues, guiding them back down the stairs in that slow, careful pace of his.

Behind his back, she points a warning finger in Ruby's direction as the latter winks meaningfully—her mind still lingering on his remark that he gets 'attached', which is probably by far his most personal confession yet.

"Is that a spinning wheel?" she exclaims once they've descended three flights of stairs and gathered in the large and well-lit basement, which is equally filled with a variety of not-quite-discarded items.

"It is," he simply confirms, once again choosing not to elaborate as he turns around.

She inwardly adds this to the list of things she wants to ask him about—things that intrigue her very much indeed. In the meantime, she takes his unspoken cue and joins him on the slow trek back to the living room. Once more, they don't encounter a single person, or any hint at all that this house is ever visited by someone other than himself.

The Victorian mansion may not seem overly large from the outside, but for only one inhabitant, it does feel imposing. Maybe it's not so strange that he eventually invited Ruby and herself to come and stay with him here after all.


	4. Friday, 7.45 pm

"This was delicious, Mr. Gold," Belle says, glancing with regret at her by now empty plate.

"Yes, this was really good," Ruby adds, for once without the camera—and genuinely impressed with their current host.

"Thank you, Miss Lucas, Miss French," he replies, putting down his napkin.

Rather than allowing them to pry some good anecdotes from him, or even film him without his talking to them, their host insisted on cooking for them and refused their help. Once he emerged from the kitchen again, he subsequently invited the two of them to come and enjoy their dinner.

Ruby can't have gotten more than a few shots of the nicely-dressed table and impressive courses, thus failing to collect any actually useful material for the show. But at least he was slightly less guarded without the camera around—although he still refused to engage in anything but small talk, and even then very little.

Still, she's had her best meal in ages. Given that her friend is at least as enthusiastic about his cooking as herself, although she practically grew up in a diner, that's definitely saying something. Even when she isn't too lost in a book to actually notice what she's eating, she's more of a burger and iced tea kind of woman.

She definitely didn't expect an apparent bachelor to conjure such a sophisticated and elaborate meal, and she hopes he will prepare others in the weekend she gets to share with him. The prospect is a lovely one indeed, even if he should remain just as reluctant to talk to her properly.

"What do you usually do at this time of the day?" she asks as he collects their empty plates, not giving up on her attempt to get answers to at least some of her questions from him.

"I wash the dishes," he says dryly, one of the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly upwards.

"Then I'll help you," she says, quickly getting up to carry the pile of dirty plates to the sink, if only to distract herself from the realization that he's yet more gorgeous with that tiny smile on his face.

She's no longer surprised that he doesn't have a dishwasher, although she still hasn't quite gotten over the discovery that a man of his standing turns out to wash his and his guests' dishes by hand.

"There really is no need, Miss French, although I very much appreciate your offer. Why don't you go to the library? Surely you'll find one or two books to your liking."

"Not just yet. Washing the dishes is the least I can do to thank you for this wonderful meal," she replies, wondering why he keeps referring to the library and the books there, as if he knew how much she is tempted by them—although not nearly as much as she usually would be, as said books happen to be in  _his_  house.

That's how they end up side by side in the kitchen, doing the dishes in silence: he washes and she dries—and wonders where to put the cutlery and tableware that are done.

"Where should these go?" she asks as she runs out of space to temporarily place the items she has wiped.

"Just put them somewhere," he says, gesturing at some cupboards and drawers.

"Now, Mr. Gold, don't tell me that each and every plate and fork doesn't have a designated spot in your kitchen."

"You caught me there, Miss French."

"But then I can't possibly just put them back at random, not knowing where everything is supposed to go, can I?"

"Well, maybe this place could do with some change."

She looks back just in time to see him glance away from her quickly—a fraction of a second too late to prevent her from noticing that his slightly wistful tone is accompanied by a matching look.

"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Gold. Next thing you know, I will have rearranged everything in your kitchen by color."

"Go right ahead, Miss French."

"I… that won't be necessary. I'll just put these where I can find others of their sort."

She starts to open a few cupboards and drawers, finding, as expected, some unused spoons and cups that tell her where to put the ones they just washed and dried.

At least she is getting to snoop in his kitchen—although she finds nothing of particular interest, other than the businessman who refuses to be interviewed in any shape or fashion, but who, at the same time, seems rather eager for her to arrange half of his kitchen to her preferences.

"All done," she says, hanging her tea towel on the heater while he takes off his bright yellow household gloves. "What else might you do on an average Friday night, now that the dishes are all washed?"

"I…" He falters, staring with sudden interest at his feet.

"What is it?" she asks softly, tentatively stepping closer to him.

"I play chess," he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

His still lowered head tells her that he doesn't mean he plays against a computer or, indeed, a fellow human being.

"Well, let's play chess then," she says, gradually reaching for him.

Unlike the last time she did so—possibly because he can see her coming now—Mr. Gold accepts her touch with a little sigh as she carefully rests her hand on his upper arm again. He seems very small to her then, in a way that has nothing to do with his posture.

"Luckily for you, I'll probably be less difficult to defeat than… well, yourself,"

"I highly doubt that, Miss French."

"Only one way to find out."

"I… the board is in the library."

"Sounds perfect. After you?"

He nods, heading out of the kitchen. It's doubtlessly only in her imagination that he seems disappointed when that causes her hand to slide off his arm. Ruby follows them closely, filming once more. Whatever happens, she'll at least have a high quality recording of Mr. Gold and herself in the most domestic scene they must ever have shot for their show—the most domestic situation she's ever been in, period.

The thought is an oddly uplifting one.

Once they arrive in the library, he retrieves the most beautiful and intricate chest pieces she's ever seen. She runs her fingers over the gorgeously cut and polished stone in admiration, finding him looking at her with a soft expression on his face when she returns her attention to him.

He pulls up a chair for her as they settle at the large table in the middle of the library, the equally impressive board between them. He hands her the white pieces, immediately choosing the black ones for himself. She peeks at him as he places them on the board, not quite recalling where to put her own.

"I must admit that I'm rather rusty," she says, trying to remember how the pieces are supposed to move, "and I was never good to begin with."

"It's a good thing then that I'm not here to quash your dreams, Miss French. We don't have to play, please don't think that I'm insisting on…"

"No, I'd love to play a game," she quickly replies—and not only because she's glad to have finally found something he's interested in, in which they can participate together. "I'm just trying to let you know that I'm not a worthy chess opponent."

"Well, you're the only one I have. And even if you weren't… I wouldn't want anyone else."

The warmth that spreads all the way through her after that barely audible statement has nothing at all to do with her relief that he's finally opening up ever so slightly in front of the camera. He moves his hand to one of his pawns, only appearing to recall that it is she who is supposed to go first after he has almost touched it.

"You can have the white, if you prefer," she says, gesturing for them to turn the board.

"I respectfully disagree, Miss French. That's much more your color."

She has no idea what to say to that, so she doesn't answer anything. Instead, she tries to focus on the game in front of her, which she finds more challenging than it would be in any other situation now that Mr. Gold is openly watching her. It's not that she is bothered by that, quite the opposite, but his attention turns out to be rather distracting—in the best sense of the word, but distracting regardless.

Belle moves a piece, then another after he has mirrored her action—until she loses her knight. Or at least, she would have if he hadn't pointed meaningfully at the bishop of his that would have captured it, and carefully undone the wrong move she had just made. They continue like that until he barely has to correct any of her moves anymore, although he still easily beats her.

"Another one?" he asks when she has capitulated her rook, sounding not quite unlike a child asking for another bedtime story.

"Yes, that would be lovely," she replies, thrilled to see such relative enthusiasm from him.

They play yet another game after that, and although Belle is hardly getting closer to beating him, at least she is visibly improving. More than anything, she enjoys the way he explains different game tactics and strategies to her, as enthusiastic as she's seen him about anything until now—and, unlike many men on her show, he doesn't oversimplify things for her, or drone on endlessly.

"Do you have a favorite game?" he asks, sounding rather hopeful again. "We can play that next, if you like."

Given how old-fashioned his household is, she doubts he owns the kind of elaborate fantasy games she likes to play every once in a while. But there's a childhood favorite of hers that he might have.

"Scrabble?" she suggests, glancing at the cabinet from which he just retrieved the chess set.

"I think it must be somewhere in the attic."

"I'll go get it," Ruby says from the corner of the room, glancing up from the screen of her phone.

Belle blinks, having quite forgotten that her friend is there—and that she isn't filming any longer. She doesn't blame her for that by any means; this must be the first time they spend this long doing one and the same activity with a host—and it's not as if Mr. Gold was baring his soul to her, or sharing so much as one personal thing about himself.

Not to mention that she'd probably much rather be with her new girlfriend right now, rather than to witness this strange dance that appears to be going on between Belle and their host.

"There's a box in the closest left hand corner, with 'games' written on it. It should be there."

"I'll be right back," Ruby says, sounding relieved to have something to do.

"Would you like anything to drink, Miss French?" he asks next, as the silence between them lengthens.

"I'd love some iced tea, if you have that."

"I do," he says, smiling ever so slightly, as if amused by a private joke. "Do you know what Miss Lucas would like to have?"

"Ruby loves Coke."

"I'm afraid I haven't stocked up on that."

"It's no problem, she likes iced tea too."

Ruby comes back to the library with a worn Scrabble box in her hand, right when their host also returns with three empty glasses and three bottles of iced tea on a small trolley. She inwardly curses herself for not offering him her help; obviously he couldn't simply have brought the items on a tray, given that he needs one hand for his cane.

They resume their previous positions; the two of them at the table with the new game between them, Ruby in an armchair, with the camera in her hand again this time. She highly doubts that Mr. Gold is going to become any more talkative, but right now she doesn't care all that much.

Rather than trying to make him feel more comfortable with their company in the hope that he will open up tomorrow, or wishing she could interview him this very evening, Belle is just looking forward to playing Scrabble with him.

After all, the last time she played board games with anyone, let alone someone as fascinating as this man, is a longer time ago than when she last had a captivating, in-depth interview with a near-stranger. As far as first evenings of sleepovers go, this isn't all so bad.


	5. Saturday, 1.10 am

"Another game, Miss French?"

She is tempted to say yes, having never had such a challenging Scrabble opponent as the ever-elusive Mr. Gold before. She may have won both games they've played so far, but each was very close, the last one especially.

"Best of three?" he adds as she hesitates.

"I'd love to play more Scrabble with you, but I'd much rather hear about  _you_ , you know."

"There's nothing much to tell, really."

His expression and tone remain friendly enough, but she can almost feel him withdrawing into himself.

"I highly doubt that's true."

Although she'd love to ask him about his business and his reputation—so at odds with the man she's slightly getting to know—she wants to avoid the conversation being terminated before it can even begin.

"Doesn't it get lonely, being constantly all by yourself in this house?" she asks, hoping that this topic will be slightly safer.

"I'm not  _entirely_ alone the whole time."

Although he is avoiding the question, he at least informed her that there  _are_  occasionally other people in this house. It was something else she was wondering about but didn't quite know how to ask without him getting defensive and dismissing the question. Although his answer isn't all that open, he has revealed a little at any rate, if on a different subject—which he's only just seeming to realize, as he looks chagrined, but not overly so.

"I have a housekeeper who comes by once a week, and someone to deliver my mail and groceries and the like. He also takes care of the exterior of the house and the garden."

"I see," she replies, still finding that rather limited as far as social interactions go—never mind that it doesn't sound at all like the life of a man who runs a billion-dollar company. "There is no one else?"

"Who else should there be?" he asks, the returning tension in his shoulders betraying not nearly as much flippancy as his tone suggests.

"Should I worry about you, Mr. Gold?" she asks in turn, reaching for him over the table.

When he doesn't withdraw, she finds herself taking his lower arm in her hand, caressing him very lightly through the fabric of his suit. His eyes close at the exploratory contact, a soft sigh escaping him. Belle's breath quickens when she touches him like this, his warmth seeping into her.

He's got so many walls around him that she doesn't even know where to begin trying to find some openings, either to discover him as their current host or as a human being… a fascinating,  _gorgeous_  human being.

If anything else, his distant behavior should be enough to prevent her from finding her interest in him more than piqued. Not to mention his more than questionable reputation—or the discovery that his actual life appears to be completely at odds with everything her background research on him concluded.

And yet, he's the best puzzle she's ever found; his eyes are so warm, his words so gentle—never mind the fact that he voluntarily washed her  _feet_.

"Do you at least visit other places sometimes? This house is very lovely, but if one never left it…"

"I do leave it," he murmurs, staring at the point where her finger is still brushing against him.

"Then where do you go?"

"The forest."

"Which one?" she asks, hardly surprised, if slightly frustrated by the ever so vague answer.

"Behind the house."

"Oh, Mr. Gold… don't you  _want_  to go somewhere else? Just for a little while?"

"Why would I? I don't like being in any other place."

"Why not?" she inquires, quickly finding herself getting lost in the strangest interview she's ever conducted.

"It's safe here," he says, shrugging, his lower arm still resting in her palm.

"And it isn't anywhere else?" she asks, thinking of his supposed wealth and the almost complete lack of security around the very house he perceives to be out of harm's way. "Does anyone even know where you live, other than your housekeeper and your assistant?"

"Yes," he replies, his voice yet softer than before. "There is one other person who knows that I'm here."

That answer intrigues her yet more, but one look at his face, for as far as she can see it behind his long hair, tells her that there's no point in asking who that individual might be.

"What do you mean by 'safe'? Are you in danger, Mr. Gold? Is someone trying to hurt you?"

His only response is a short shake of his head, but it's enough to reassure her—slightly.

"Are you happy?" she whispers, her heart breaking a little for him.

"Right now I'm not unhappy."

"I want you to be happy," she says, not entirely knowing where that remark came from.

At the same time, she subconsciously finds his bare skin with her index finger, that she brushes against his inner wrist—right beneath the edge of his suit jacket. He lets out a choked sound, his rapid heartbeat tangible in the vein under the top of her finger.

"What is it to you whether I'm happy or not?" he asks, lowering his gaze.

"I don't generally go around wishing for other people to be unhappy. But in your case… I  _like_  you, Mr. Gold. It makes me happy if  _you_ are."

He glances back at her as if this concept was wholly incomprehensible to him.

"I'm happy that you're here," he states very quietly.

"So am I," she breathes, still stroking her finger against the inside of his wrist, where his pulse seems to have quickened further.

He tentatively smiles at her, and although the expression is hardly more than a slight tug at the corners of his mouth, she treasures it now that she's getting to know the far from optimistic nature of the man it comes from.

"Although you don't seem so happy that you actually drank your iced tea," she adds lightly, her gaze falling on the only half-finished glass next to her two empty ones.

"I must admit that I didn't like it very much."

"Was it too sweet?"

"No, I… I like sweetness," he replies, managing to sound almost  _shy_. "It's just, the taste… it was a bit artificial."

"But you must have known that before you began drinking, or had you never had this brand before?"

"I had never had iced tea before in my life."

"But… you'd never had iced tea and yet you had three bottles of it in your fridge?"

"Well, I've got more than three bottles… I like to be prepared. I didn't want to be the worst host in the history of your show."

This rings very true to her, especially after the way he literally got on his knees to clean her feet… although it doesn't explain why he has so much iced tea—her favorite drink—and no coke, possibly the more obvious choice.

"Mr. Gold, can I just ask…" she begins, the fact that he still hasn't withdrawn from her light grasp giving her the hope that she can successfully drive their conversation in a more critical direction. "When I read up on you in preparation for the show, I saw a lot of criticism about you and your company. How you get people thrown out of their houses, your investing in projects which…"

"If there's one thing I've found in life, it's that you can't please everyone," he says calmly before she can finish.

"It goes a bit further than that in your case," she insists softly but firmly. "Quite a lot further."

"True," he simply replies, not even trying to defend himself—just like she didn't find a single answer to all the claims against him, either from him or anyone from his company.

"Is that really all you have to say on the topic?"

"Yes. Does that surprise you?"

"What surprises me is that such horrible things are said about you, but everything I've seen here seems to portray the complete opposite of a man who would do the kind of things you are accused of. And yet, you don't even try to plead your cause when these allegations are brought up."

"Do you want to know if those rumors are true? Do you want to know whether my company built dozens of unsafe buildings? Whether I threw out thousands of tenants, if not more? Whether my firm destroyed vulnerable natural areas? And most of all, whether I gave those orders myself?"

"I…" She falters, unable to think straight in a way that has little to do with the late hour as he monotonously rattles off these accusations.

No matter how much she wants to make serious television, address things that truly matter, this isn't the time she would have chosen for that shift… particularly not with this man who can make her feel cherished one moment, and then distance himself from her in all senses of the word.

"I don't deny any of these charges," he says, looking at her intently.

Within the span of minutes, she went from having a relatively personal conversation with Mr. Gold to him talking to her on this big issue, like he doesn't even do with actual journalists.

"But do you acknowledge those accusations to be true?

"I… I do not," he responds after a moment of hesitation.

"So you're neither admitting nor denying them?"

"Indeed."

"But if it isn't true, why wouldn't you…"

"I'm not a likable man, Miss French, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I hadn't, that's what I'm trying to say! Obviously, I've been here for less than half a day, but… I do find you likable! Very much so."

He looks utterly bewildered, as if the notion that she might like him was stranger to him than the severe claims that are made against him—whether they are true or not.

"It seems to me that you're trying to make yourself out as… some kind of monster, a  _beast_ , locking yourself up in this house in the middle of nowhere like it's some sort of hidden lair. I… I don't  _get_  it, Mr. Gold. Don't you want… don't you want anyone else in your life? Friends? A significant other?"

"I don't want  _anyone_  that way," he brings out rather sharply, yanking his arm away from her hand after all.

_Well, that settles that._

She's got confirmation now that he isn't interested in a romantic or physical relationship with anyone, her included. It shouldn't bother her, she barely knows this man after all—where is that sudden desire she feels for exactly that coming from anyway?!

And yet, and yet…

"It's late," he says, standing up abruptly, ignoring the Scrabble board he was so eager to use again only a short while ago. "I'd like to retire for the night."

"Of course," she replies quickly, getting up as well. 'We'll go to our rooms."

"I'll bring up your suitcase."

"You don't have to… I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase. I'll take it upstairs myself."

If the last few minutes hadn't taken the turn they had, she'd have loved for him to bring up her luggage, to accompany her to her bedroom door. But right now, she needs some time to think—time without his unfairly handsome self right next to her.

"In that case, I bid you goodnight, Miss French, Miss Lucas. I'll see you in the morning."

He heads out of the living room, lingering for a moment as he reaches the door, but not turning back around. When he heads up the stairs a moment later, Belle lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Are you okay, hon?" Ruby asks, putting her camera away.

"I am, yes, thanks. Just tired."

"Yeah, I can imagine. Just looking at the two of you was intense."

"Yes, I can imagine it was. It definitely felt like that to me. He's so… contradictory. But I couldn't dislike him even if I wanted to. It's like… like he's trying to be so indifferent, but he cares way too much to succeed… although I can't imagine him actually admitting that."

"At least I think you're not the only one with a crush," Ruby says, bumping her shoulder playfully.

"Wait… what?!"

"Come on, don't say you haven't noticed."

"Noticed  _what_?"

"You're so oblivious", Ruby sighs good-naturedly. "The way he looks at you with those big brown eyes, going wherever you go… wanting to continue playing Scrabble with you, although he figured out within five minutes how disturbingly good you are at that game. Don't get me started on that five star meal he made you. And do I need to remind you that he was very happy to  _wash your feet_?"

"Are you actually defending him, all of a sudden?" she asks, barely able to believe that her usually rather cynical friend seems to support her interest in Mr. Gold rather than to warn her against him once more.

"He treats you like a queen. That's more than I can say for any other man in your life."

"I… I do really like him, but not when he gets so flippant. It's almost as if he were hiding something… something  _good._  I can't begin to wonder… but it hardly matters. You heard him as well as I did. He's not interested in being with anyone."

"Well, I wouldn't be so certain about that. This sleepover is still far from being finished."


	6. Saturday, 2.05 am

Belle collapses on the bed that will be hers for the weekend with a deep sigh, exhausted but her mind far too agitated to rest. So far, her sleepover isn't going to plan at all. After all, she came here to create an either entertaining or thought-provoking episode about Mr. Gold's life and home, or on a more personal level, to get to know the man who has been intriguing her for years.

Although each of these things, in its own way, has shown promising signs so far, they all took unsatisfactory turns before the day was over. Climbing over his gate and seeing him spontaneously clean her feet was entertaining enough initially, but the resulting confusion still leaves her uneasy. He acknowledged the accusations against his company and himself, only to refuse to either admit or deny them—what does that even mean?

Not to mention the fact that he began opening up to her, possibly even connecting to her in a purely social way, only to slam the proverbial door in her face.

Usually, this would be the point where she pretends to wake up in the middle of the night and goes on an exploration spree through the quiet house of her host, getting up to some mischief. It's usually one of her favorite parts of a sleepover, but right now she's hardly in the mood.

Still, they're going to have to shoot useful footage at some point if they want to have a worthwhile episode at the end of the weekend, and this place  _does_  intrigue her. Belle can only hope that it will turn out to be more open to her curiosity than its owner.

Opening her suitcase, she surveys the two sets of pajamas in it—only to find a third one there. Then again, the almost fully transparent negligee lying at the bottom of the trunk can hardly be described as a pajama.

"Oh, Ruby," she sighs, having no doubt whatsoever about who must have slipped the item there when they traveled to this location earlier today.

For years, her friend has joked about including some underwear of a whole lot less functional kind in the sleepovers, but it's not like Belle would want to be seen in such an attire by any of her hosts, let alone the rest of the nation.

Well, she  _might_  have considered wearing something like this while sneaking into Mr. Gold's bedroom an hour or so ago, but definitely not after the way their conversation just ended. Opting for the warmest and most modest set of pajamas, she finds another item she most certainly didn't pack when she pulls the soft fabric from the yellow case.

"What the hell?!" she murmurs at the sight of this second addition, a small cardboard box.

Holding it to the light, she's startled to find that Ruby must also have included some condoms for her.

"Well, it's not as if I'm going to need  _those_."

She has no idea whether her friend put in these two objects as a prank or because she genuinely believes she may need them this weekend, but there's no doubt in Belle's mind that they will be wholly redundant.

Though that's not because she won't think of his warm eyes and small smiles by the time she's finally in bed, won't shiver in reminiscence of his gentle hands on her feet, the way he knelt before her. Not to mention the accented lilt of his voice and the way his tailored suit fits so beautifully around his lean frame.

But as Mr. Gold made very clear, he isn't interested in relationships of any sort, never mind one involving the outspoken television personality who has just invaded his home.

Changing quickly before switching off the light and picking up the camera Ruby left in her room for exactly this purpose, Belle checks the time and points the device at herself, making certain that it's on the night setting.

"It's a quarter past two in the night. Since Mr. Gold wasn't very forthcoming today, I'm going to see if I can find something in his house that might reveal more about the man behind the mask of the indifferent businessman he has been holding up for the greater part of the evening."

Turning the camera to record what's happening right in front of her, Belle carefully opens her bedroom door and makes her way onto the landing as softly as she can.

"First, let's see if we run into anything here," she whispers, heading directly for the doors he walked straight past during their tour of the house.

She can easily find her way, bright moonlight reaching the interior through the windows. It almost feels like the house is welcoming her wholly and with open arms, even if its owner isn't.

Trying the handle of the first door, she finds it firmly locked, as well as the second. Idly wondering what might be in those rooms that he doesn't want her to see, she lets her gaze fall on the last panel on this end of the hallway: the one corresponding to his bedroom, which he didn't show her either.

Back when she was enjoying playing games with him, some of the warmth she senses within him actually revealed, she might have considered entering that place—watching him sleep, perhaps slipping into bed with him, and even cuddling if he was awake and open to that.

But she's hardly in the mood for that now, disliking the way he put his aloof mask back on as soon as she felt she was finally getting somewhere with his true self.

After a moment of indecision, she heads to the attic next. Walking as quietly as she can, barefoot on the creaking stairs, she illuminates her path with her phone. Taking a closer look at all the old items on the top floor of the house doesn't turn out to be very exciting. It's mostly rather worn furniture, cushions and even a mattress, that all look… well, old and unlike the items in the inhabited part of the mansion, not particularly valuable or beautiful.

There are large boxes too, marked with rather messily written words such as 'cutlery', 'Christmas' and 'games'—the latter being where Ruby must have retrieved the set of Scrabble. She peeks in a few of them, finding dusty contents that don't appear to have been touched in years.

What's more, all of the items are decisively outdated, just like the rest of his house. It's almost as if he hadn't bought anything since then. Just about everything here looks like it's at least twenty years old, as though time had been standing still in this place—in his very life—in the meantime.

The basement turns out to be more interesting. There are work benches, tools, and a variety of knick-knacks—two pocket watches, a lovely lamp—in different states of repair. It seems that she has unearthed another hobby of Mr. Gold's after all, or at least an activity he regularly practices.

And then there's the spinning wheel, the largest object in the room. Now that she's here on her own, she notices the low stool standing in front of it, and the wool and thread located right where she imagines they are supposed to go. Another pastime, perhaps, if an unorthodox one.

Then again, she hasn't noticed anything about him that is  _not_  unorthodox yet… and despite herself, she still really likes that.

Her mind full of questions and fascination regarding her host, she decides to take a better look at his library—only to stand dead in her tracks when she hears noises coming from that very direction.

Carefully making her way over to investigate, she finds none other than Mr. Gold reclining in an armchair by one of the windows, his sharp facial features bathed in moonlight. If he'd been still, she could have stood there for a considerable time, just admiring him.

But he isn't—far from it. Although his eyes are firmly closed and there's no doubt that he's truly sleeping, his body is thrashing on the chair. Perspiration is dripping down his face, and she could swear she can see his eyeballs moving frantically behind their closed lids. The discovery that he is having a nightmare, and a vicious one at that by the looks of it, only roots her more firmly to the floor.

Despite his reluctance, she's learned one or two things about him in the hours they've spent together so far. But those were things he consciously revealed to her, completely different from what she's witnessing now—this so very private man reduced to what she presumes to be his most basic of instincts.

"No, please… don't go… don't leave me on my own."

Yet as he begins to talk in his sleep, the words mostly inaudible, she can't stand by or leave him like this any longer. Finding her legs able to move again, she rushes towards him, almost dropping the still-running camera in her haste. Getting down on her knees in front of him, she's too worried to wonder who he's talking about.

"Please, come back… I'm  _afraid…_ come back to me…  _please…_ "

"Mr. Gold, wake up!" She shakes his arms lightly, as her voice alone isn't enough to rouse him. "You're having a nightmare. You'll be fine as soon as you're awake."

He still doesn't react to her, causing her to jostle him more firmly. Only after another few seconds do his eyes burst open; he stares unseeingly at her, his entire body tense.

"It's me," she whispers, belatedly realizing that it might not be all that soothing for him to see  _her_  straight out of his nightmare. "I'm…"

" _Belle_ ," he breathes, blinking furiously before his pupils return to a more normal size, focusing on her at last.

"… yes," she brings out, glad that he seems to be relieved rather than shocked by her presence, "that's me."

"You're here. You're  _real_."

"Of course I'm real," she says, delighted when he places his hand on hers, which is still resting on his upper arm. "What else would I be?"

As if it wasn't strange enough that he's touching her of his own accord for the first time since they shook hands during their introduction, he is looking at her like… well, like he doesn't ever want her to let go of him again.

"Does this happen often?" she inquires softly, already knowing the answer before he nods sadly, but also sensing that this is much safer than asking him what— _whom—_ the nightmare was about.

"Almost every night. It makes me afraid to go to bed. But it catches up on me even when I try to  _avoid_  sleeping for a while longer, like tonight."

"Poor thing. You must be exhausted."

"It's not too bad. It's easier to sleep during the day," he says rather reluctantly, as if it was shameful for him to tell her this.

"I'm glad you can at least get some rest that way," she murmurs, only noticing the dark marks under his eyes and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks and jaw now that she's actually so close to him.

"You… you must be tired yourself, Miss French," he says, breaking away from her after all, as if aware—and disapproving—of her attention.

"I'm not, actually. Besides, it would be a waste if I didn't spend as much time as I can in this gorgeous library. If you'll have me, of course! If you'd rather I go back to my room, I will do so, naturally."

"There is no need. I… I want to thank you, Miss French, for waking me up when you did. You spared me the worst of the nightmare. Stay here as long as you wish."

She can't help but wonder what it might be like to stay with  _him_  just as much as she wants, indeed, beyond this single weekend of the sleepover—to talk and play games and read and wake him from his nightmares. Obviously, that notion is an utterly unrealistic one and she dismisses it immediately.

"You like  _Sense and Sensibility_ , do you not?" he says softly, continuing before she can ask him how he knows that she loves to read, let alone what her all-time favorite novel is: "I could read it to you, if you like?"

"That would be lovely," she replies, delighted by the offer.

He gets up with some difficulty and heads straight for the shelf where he keeps his copy of the book. As he sits in his chair again, she settles on the couch opposite, still wide awake.

Mr. Gold turns out to be an excellent reader: for all of his reservations in his private life, the characters in the book come alive through his voice, ever-changing in volume and intonation. She can't help but wonder whether this is what his very self might be like, in real life, if he were to free himself from the invisible chains that seem to constrain both him and this house.


	7. Saturday, 8.15 am

Waking on the weekend is usually a rather tedious affair for Belle. For one, the hours of rest she gets during her sleepovers are often rather short, and that's not even mentioning the experience of waking up to a different bed in a different house of a different part of the country for the greater part of the year.

Allowing her memories to return gradually to her as she wakes, she finds herself not in her bedroom in Mr. Gold's house, but rather in the library, on the very couch where he read to her last night. She must have fallen asleep at some point… but not on the pillow and beneath the blanket which are currently keeping her comfortable and warm.

She sits up, reluctant to get out of her pleasant cocoon, but wanting to find out where her host is. To her disappointment, it isn't with her in the library anymore. Yawning, she stretches herself and looks in appreciation at the blanket. It's the same color and size as the one on the bed that will be hers for the weekend—which might well mean that he has retrieved it from the room upstairs.

Standing up from the couch, she finds that her feet are bare and that the camera she put down next to his armchair is still exactly where she left it, facing right where she's sitting now—where she must have been when Gold tucked her in for the night.

Not feeling chilly any longer, she eagerly rushes to the device, picking it up. It must have switched itself off after a certain period of inactivity, but it immediately springs to life when she puts it back on. Yet better, she finds an image of herself in the state she just woke up in on the screen, even though the recording must have stopped somewhere during the night due to limited remaining memory space. So if she fast-backwards long enough…

Her fingers almost trembling with enthusiasm, she reaches the point she was looking for. It must not be all that long after she found him in the throes of his nightmare. This version of her is slowly but surely sagging down on the couch, her eyes falling closed over and over again even as she struggles to remain conscious.

At least now she doesn't have to fight to stay awake to continue hearing his incredible voice; all she has to do is request for Ruby to be  _very_  careful with this memory card, and create a copy for her once this sleepover is done. Now  _that_  will be something she can fall asleep to for… well, the rest of her life, as far as she's concerned. Not thinking of that right now, she finds the exact spot where he ceases his reading off-screen.

"Miss French? Miss French, are you still awake?"

When her sleeping self doesn't answer, he steps into the line of the camera. Only when he kneels down at her side does he become fully visible.

"Miss French?" he asks again, his face a mere foot away from hers. "Belle?"

Something inside the woman watching the recording flutters at his so very tender pronunciation of her name, rather at odds with the man she's getting to know so far—or rather, the sides of him he has allowed her to see.

"Belle?" he tries once more before saying another, slightly longer word, softly enough to be half-inaudible.

She initially thinks she just heard 'sweetheart', but  _surely_  he wouldn't address her like that—or would he? She can't imagine him using that term of endearment in a casual or demeaning way, but  _especially not_  in reference to her either.

Then again, it no longer seems quite so impossible when he guides her down into a sleeping position on the couch, his hands gentle and respectful. She's almost disappointed when he walks out of the frame, only to return after a few minutes—which pass in mere seconds, with a few pushes of the fast-forward button—with the blanket and pillow that must indeed have come from the bedroom he offered her.

Mr. Gold carefully slides her heels off her feet, putting them on the floor next to the couch, just where they are now. After wrapping the blanket protectively around her, he bends down, bringing his face yet closer to hers than before, hesitating. Breathlessly, Belle watches the way the man on the screen eventually brushes his lips against her forehead.

"Sweet dreams, Belle," he murmurs before walking away again, presumably heading to his own bedroom after all, oblivious to the still filming camera.

More confused than she's been since coming here, and yet positively floating now that she's seen these actions from the man she's undeniably attracted to, she texts Ruby to wake her up and ask her to bring a new battery and memory stick for the device.

She remains where she is as she waits for her friend, replaying the footage and considering the large discrepancy between the person he actually is and that which he pretends to be.

"So, was I right last night or what?"

Belle starts at the sudden voice, so caught up in the repeated proceedings on the small screen that she didn't hear Ruby's approach.

"You probably were," she acknowledges, finding her friend looking at the recording over her shoulder. "I can't deny that Mr. Gold does seem to like me very much anymore, although he has a strange way of showing it."

"You mean doing it when he thinks you aren't aware."

"Exactly."

"So I'm taking it you slept well?"

"Very well, thanks. What about you?"

"Not too bad. Gold is in the basement, in case you were wondering."

"I was, thanks. Let's check up on him?"

As soon as Ruby has the camera up and running again, they head to the basement, where they indeed find Mr. Gold. Belle falters on the stairs at the sight of him. He's at the spinning wheel, confirming her assumption that he likes to work on it. What she had not expected, however, was the ease with which he operates the old-fashioned tool. If she didn't know any better, she'd almost think he has done so all his life.

His shoulders are slumped, his head drooping, and if it weren't for his smoothly-moving hands, she'd think he has fallen asleep behind the wheel. As it is, she doesn't believe it will take much longer to happen.

"Good morning, Mr. Gold," she announces quietly, wincing when he practically jumps, having clearly not heard them coming.

"Good morning to you too, Miss French and Miss Lucas," he says, ceasing his work to turn towards them.

Belle is shocked at the sight of his face. He must have shaved earlier this morning, his cheeks smoother than last night, but other than that, he looks like a wreck. He probably showered and applied cologne as well, his scent yet more delicious than before—but it seems that he hasn't slept since she woke him from his nightmare.

"I'm sorry we startled you," she says, instinctively rushing towards him.

"It's hardly your fault that I'd momentarily forgotten I have two guests."

"You were that lost in thought?" she asks, looking at the spinning wheel he was working on.

"I was, yes," he replies, rather sheepishly. "Spinning makes me forget. And I… well, I  _forgot_ that's not always useful."

That statement alone contains many things she wants to inquire about, especially after witnessing his nightmare—what he wants to forget, for instance, and how this seemingly mundane task can distract him so much.

"Thank you very much for last night," he says softly, glancing up at her from behind his lashes. "I can't tell you enough how grateful I am."

"You don't have to thank me at all. If anything, I'm grateful to  _you_. You're a fantastic reader, you know."

"I… well, I had no idea about that. I'm just glad that you enjoyed it, Miss French."

"I also really liked the way you tucked me in," she adds, daring to reach out to him again.

To her delight, he smiles a little as she caresses his upper arm.

"I'm glad. I wasn't certain if you'd mind, but you looked so peaceful, and I didn't want you to get cold or uncomfortable."

"I was more than all right with it. You can tuck me in any night, Mr. Gold."

She's surprised by her own candor, the words flying out of her mouth before she can remind herself that he hasn't exactly reacted well to any personal remarks in the past. It makes it better yet that he continues to smile ever so slightly at her, some healthy color returning to his cheeks.

"I highly doubt that."

"Why?" she asks, stroking his bicep a bit more firmly, marveling at the feeling of his warmth and the wiry muscles beneath his suit—a different one than yesterday. "Why do you think I shouldn't like to be tucked in as carefully and gently as you did last night?"

"You… you weren't  _awake_  when I did that, were you?"

"I wasn't," she replies, not entirely surprised by his sudden panic as she recalls how much more at ease he seemed with her when he thought she would never witness his kindness. "Does it make a difference?"

Just like that, the moment is gone again. He turns back to his spinning wheel, her hand falling off his upper arm.

"You wouldn't want an old and bitter cripple to watch over you as you sleep."

She stills when she belatedly realizes that he walked away from her sleeping form as soon as he had made her comfortable last night… although she would very much have liked for him to stay with her. But beyond that, she is horrified by the way he speaks about himself.

"You're not nearly as dark as people say you are, nor as you seem to think, for that matter. I've visited quite a lot of people like this throughout the years, and few have been as generous and gentle as you have proved so far."

His hands are still at the wheel, falling back to his knees when Belle goes to stand right beside him, tentatively resting her arms on his—both of them this time.

"Did you sleep even a little this night?" she asks quietly, continuing to caress his biceps as he seems to relax slightly.

"After you found me in the library? Not at all."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, hating that his night must have been rather unpleasant, especially after he made it so good for her.

"It's hardly your fault," he scoffs, not breaking away from her, to her delight—in fact, he seems to lean into her a bit more, his head resting very slightly against her chest as she wordlessly encourages him to relax against her. "At least this morning is better than any I've had for a long time."

"Well, indeed that's something. Let's see if we can make the rest of your day just as enjoyable?"

"I… I'd really like that, Miss French."

"What are we waiting for, then? How about we go have a proper breakfast right now?"

"I…"

"Don't tell me you're not a breakfast kind of guy."

"I rarely have it."

"I was already afraid of that. But you're going to from now on, while we are here at any rate. Most important meal of the day, and all that. Come on, I'll make you some eggs."

"You do know that you are making this yet more unappealing to me by taking over my host duties, don't you?"

"Well, what would you have me do, Mr. Gold?"

"At least, let me make you whatever you wish to eat. In return, I promise I'll have some of it as well."

"In that case… I never actually make them, but maybe you could cook some pancakes? If you also like them?"

"Say no more, Miss French. One pile of pancakes coming up."


	8. Saturday, 10.45 am

"Let's go for a walk," Belle suggests once they've cleared the table after a delicious breakfast.

"A walk?" Mr. Gold echoes, sounding as hesitant as… well, as he has been about a lot of things in the time she has spent with him so far.

"The weather is lovely," she elaborates, gesturing at the bright autumn light that reaches them in the kitchen, "and I bet the colors in the forest behind your house are gorgeous at this time of year. Come on, you can lean on me if your leg hurts."

"What makes you think that would make me any less reluctant to leave this perfectly comfortable and warm house?" he asks, a little bit too quickly.

"Because the clear air will hopefully help you feel better, and because exercise is good for you."

"I'm hardly a young man, Miss French," he says, starting to get tense again.

"Only more reason to go outside, if only for half an hour or so," she replies, questioningly resting her palm on his lower arm. "The fresh air might remind you that you're hardly ancient."

Like the last few times, she's delighted that he accepts her touch, even appearing to get a bit more relaxed, just like he nods in acceptance of her words.

That's how the two of them find themselves heading outside some minutes later, wrapped in their coats and the thick scarves he insisted they wear. Ruby is either right behind or next to them once more, thankfully quiet as she films everything.

"So you don't come out here often?" she asks, gesturing at the quiet and beautifully-colored forest all around them.

"Hardly, no. Not since my psychiatrist…" He ceases speaking abruptly, having clearly not meant to say that last word.

"What did your psychiatrist say?" she asks, hoping he will finish that sentence if she tries not to show how much it intrigues her that, for all his stubbornness, he did seek the assistance of a professional at some point.

"He insisted that walks would help," he continues after a moment. "Against the nightmares and all that. Seemed to forget that I've got this useless ankle, and that a person needs a whole lot more than some fresh air to feel remotely alive."

"What else might you need?" she asks, becoming oblivious to the beautiful nature around her.

"Some peace and quiet as I walk, rather than being asked nosy questions."

His words have her sighing inwardly, informing her that he's avoiding having a serious conversation again. But as she glances at him, he finds him smirking rather teasingly at her, in a manner that should not be nearly as endearing as it is.

"Truthfully, your company is rather helping, Miss French. It's…  _nice_ to have people around. To have _you_ around. It does make me feel better."

"I really enjoy your company very much as well," she dares to say, purposefully not quite meaning it in the same way as he did, and delighted when he merely nods in agreement with her words.

"Oh my, look what we have here," he drawls as they reach a gorgeous lake between the red and yellow of the coloring tree leaves. "Dr. Hopper would have a field day with this."

"Well, it  _is_  beautiful, so why not?"

"Miss French, I can see this very lake from the windows of the highest floor of my house without having to walk here like some sort of outdoors sports-person who has nothing better to do."

"You're being deliberately obtuse," she murmurs fondly, momentarily distracted by the gorgeous pool of water. It's like something out of a classic painting, or an exciting adventure book. "Besides, I bet you can't _swim_  in this lake from the windows of your attic."

"Why would I want to swim here at any point, let alone when it's this cold?"

"I do," she says firmly.

She doesn't quite know where the idea came from; probably a painting or story that this view vaguely reminds her of. Besides, although it probably  _is_  a bad idea to go swimming here at this time of year—even Ruby is looking at her with disapproval from behind the camera—she is determined to do exactly that.

Right now, more than anything, she wants to force the two of them into a situation where he's forced to acknowledge that he cares more for her than he, for some reason, is willing to tell her in person. She can always blame her wish to make entertaining television; this is exactly the kind of thing she likes doing, especially when a sleepover is progressing even remotely as slowly as this one.

Without giving it a second thought, she sheds her coat and scarf, kicking off her heels while she's at it. The crisp wind immediately nips at her, but she's flushed with the excitement of her idea, hardly feeling anything. As she divests herself of her skirt and blouse, simply dropping them to the ground, she has eyes only for the water in front of her, trusting Ruby to capture all this the first time around.

Shivering with chilliness and eagerness alike, she runs into the water, though she's soon trembling only with cold. But at least the lake isn't all that freezing compared to the wind, and when she glances back at her host, he's looking as if she's some sort of mythical creature that appeared in his backyard without warning.

Getting the feeling that he isn't particularly pleased with this, she's also disappointed that his eyes are solely on hers as she splashes into the water in nothing but her underwear—her rather  _cute_  underwear, if she might say so herself.

"Come on, Mr. Gold, join me! It will be fun!"

"Miss French, I've seen you do countless rather bizarre things for the sake of entertainment, but surely  _this_  goes far beyond…"

Too caught up to fully consider his words, she doesn't wonder how he might know so well what she does or doesn't do for the amusement of her audience. He's the only spectator she cares about right now… and she's encouraged when she spots him clutching her discarded clothing against him, as though to keep it safe—or prepare to personally help her get dressed again after her swim.

"I'll be a whole less cold if you come to warm me up."

Not quite certain whether she wants to finish what she started or she simply can't quite think straight anymore, she hopes he will come after her and finally act as wonderful as he's only seemed to be when he thought she wouldn't find out so far.

In order to increase the odds of that happening, she dives beneath the surface, shrieking with cold after she resurfaces. When she does so, water streaming down her body, Belle notices that her underwear is hardly cute any longer—and rather transparent to boot.

That doesn't stop her from splashing water in his direction, not quite aware that he's much too far away for it to reach him as she quivers. After all, she's always wanted to swim in the outdoors like that, and what setting could be more beautiful than the trees and leaves at this time of year—when she's being watched by the only man she's ever truly been attracted to?

"Miss French, I think you should come out right now. You might get hypothermia."

"Yeah, Belle, I've got more than enough footage of this and you might very well freeze to death if you stay out there much longer."

"Why don't you come and get me if you want me to return so badly?" she asks, her eyes locked on him.

She doesn't quite know what's coming over her—surely it's not  _that_  cold, it's not as if it could be influencing her state of mind—but she  _really_ wants to frolic with him in the water, no matter how chilly she might or might not be. Just the thought of him makes her warm inside, not to mention the prospect of being in his arms and…

"Please, Miss French, I don't know what has gotten into you, but I'm imploring you to get out of the lake so we can warm you up."

"Will _you_  warm me up?" she murmurs, only vaguely registering that her teeth are clattering and her voice so soft there is no way he'll actually be able to hear it.

Which is perhaps—probably?—a good thing, for it's starting to feel like it won't be all that easy after all to get her temperature back up again, not even with the help of her so far very supportive and caring host.

"Belle, get the  _hell_  out of that water."

She snaps to a more aware state. Ruby has never sounded like this before—rather scared, almost panicked even. It makes her realize that she should probably return indeed, if only to comfort her friend.

Then again, it turns out that it isn't all that self-evident to get back to shore. For some reason, her limbs are refusing to move properly; even standing up to her waist in the water suddenly appears rather challenging.

To her bewilderment, Mr. Gold hands her clothes along with his coat and scarf to Ruby, who takes them in one hand, still filming with the other while for some reason, the impeccable businessman himself charges into the water without ado.

Belle wants to tell him that he shouldn't join her after all, that it's a lot colder than it seems at first, but she finds that the sound coming out of her mouth is barely audible. She can only watch, unfortunately in a rather detached manner, as he rushes to her side. He all but throws himself in the cold water, fancy clothes and all, in order to get to her as quickly as he can.

Next thing she knows, she's being pulled to the shore, his hands ever so gentle, yet strong and insistent at the same time. He encourages her to wrap her arm around his shoulders while his own goes around her waist, supporting her and making it less difficult to walk.

She's shaking badly by the time they make it out, her hair dripping and the unforgiving wind making her feel like she's on the North Pole rather than in Maine. Mr. Gold wraps her coat around her soaked self, before adding his own for good measure.

It does make her feel a whole lot better, but her head, feet and hands only seem to get colder. To her relief, he immediately puts his arm around her again, keeping her as steady as she can be in the circumstances.

"Belle, are you okay?!"

"Yeah, I think so," she mutters, blindly holding on to her host as he supports much more of her weight than she'd expected, given that he is barely taller than she is. "Just cold… Really cold."

"We'll get you back inside as quickly as possible, Miss French. You can take a nice warm bath there, and I'll light a good fire in the hearth in the library. You can sit next to it, and I'll make certain it continues to burn. I've got a few bottles of scotch as well, you can have as much of it as you like if it helps you feel better."

"Are you planning to get me drunk, Mr. Gold?" she asks, her teeth still clattering and once more not entirely aware of what she's actually saying, the road back to his house seeming a lot longer than the way they came earlier this afternoon.

" _Never_ ," he murmurs, as if he were personally offended by the idea.

There's a flutter of warmth inside her after all when she senses that he would never do anything like that, that he would keep her safe rather than to push her to find out what he can get away with—that she can  _trust_  him, especially in a situation like this, unlike a few other hosts on previous episodes of the show.

"Well, you  _did_  get my panties all w…"

"Hon, I think it's best for you not to talk at all if you're only going to embarrass yourself… and Mr. Gold, for that matter."

Belle doesn't quite know why her friend is cutting her off, or what she just said herself for that matter. But she finds that she doesn't care all that much as long as she can rest her head on his shoulder, soaked curls and all.

"I'll call you a doctor if you wish, Miss French. I expect you'll feel a lot better once you get back inside the house, but please let me know if you aren't entirely certain that you'll recover soon."

She closes her eyes as he continues to guide her, sensing that she doesn't need anyone but him, for he is going to keep her safer than anything or anyone else ever could.


	9. Saturday, 12.10 am

"Are you feeling any better?" Ruby asks, glancing at her with concern from the other side of the bathroom.

"Physically? Yes. Mentally? I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my life."

Although she's feeling comfortably warm again, thanks to the wonderful bath Mr. Gold drew for her in the largest tub of the house—namely his own—a quiver runs through her again as she thinks back of the reason why she ended up in his personal bathroom in the first place.

"Well, that's a relief. It's probably easier to recover from those things you said to Gold; he was far too freaked out by what you were doing to yourself to care about your very strange notions of flirting."

"I'm not so certain about that," Belle replies, groaning in embarrassment at her few vivid memories of her actions earlier this afternoon. "I mean, I jumped into a lake in my underwear in the middle of autumn, for crying out loud!"

"Well, yes, it was definitely not your best plan, I'll give you that. You really scared me for a moment there, hon."

"I know," Belle sighs, not ever wanting to get out of the bath, if it means she won't have to face Mr. Gold again.

She dreads to think what the immaculate and stoic man must think of her, first for putting herself in such danger and then for making a great fool of herself while she was at it.

"I'm quite certain that Gold saw one upside of the situation… or should I say two of them?"

"What are you talking about?" she murmurs, wondering whether her brain suffered damage after all, or whether Ruby is just speaking in riddles again.

"I'm talking about the two  _upsides_  that Gold saw on your chest when you so generously gave him a striptease in his own backyard."

"What are you… I didn't…"

"Come on, Belle," Ruby says, smirking at her in apparent approval—admiration, almost. "I don't know whether it was your intention—although I can only hope it was, given the consequences—but Gold  _very_  much liked what he saw when you took your clothes off like that."

"I… I highly doubt that's true. I saw his face, he didn't even  _look_  at me."

"He didn't look at you while  _you_  were looking at him," she replies, grinning even wider as she points at her camera. "Wanna see?"

"Yes!"

She's probably far too eager, which will doubtlessly result in yet more teasing from her friend later on, but right now Belle can't wait to find out what more the device might have captured of Mr. Gold's interactions with her.

"Is it okay if I sit here?" Ruby asks, settling against the edge of the tub.

"Yes," she replies, having half-forgotten that she's still naked in the hot water.

"So while you were getting in the bath, I checked the footage I shot of you getting into that lake," Ruby says, her fingers flying expertly over the buttons, "and I noticed  _this_."

Looking at the screen, Belle grimaces as she sees herself stripping off her blouse. Her friend recorded her as tastefully as she always does, leaving most of her body out of focus. It's the memory of her actions rather than the material itself that has her cringing in delayed embarrassment.

"Look at his face," Ruby murmurs, pointing at Mr. Gold, on the very side of the frame.

"Nice shot," Belle murmurs absent-mindedly when she sees the way her friend panned away from her in order to film a close-up of their host.

He may not have appeared to be interested in her mostly bared body at all as she was looking back at him, but when she directed her attention elsewhere for a moment, Mr. Gold turned out to be watching her  _very_  closely once more.

Ruby captured in full detail the way his mouth falls open as a flash of the fabric of her discarded blouse can be seen, almost entirely off-screen. His eyes roam over her for a fraction of a second, before his gaze settles heavily on her chest. He swallows visibly, and so does she when she can see his Adam's apple bobbing.

Her breath quickening and her body warming quite independently of the hot water that surrounds her almost entirely, she likes to think that she can even see his eyes widen and darken on the high-quality video.

After less than two or three seconds, he abruptly looks away from her, muttering something to himself. She can't make out the words, but his tone seems to be self-depreciating, almost angry. No wonder that she didn't catch him staring at her the way she hoped, another few instants later.

"It seems to me that he  _really_  likes you, Belle, even though it takes your almost freezing to death to get him slightly more open towards you."

"Where is he, anyway?" she asks, suddenly concerned.

"He helped you get inside and up the stairs, into this room. He closed the door when I said I'd help you get undressed and into the bath; I don't know where he went afterwards."

"Probably to the other side of the house, if not back outdoors," she mutters, by now somewhat familiar with the way he basically hides from her each time they get slightly closer to one another, if only for an instant.

"Well, at least he insisted you use his personal bathroom; apparently it's the best one in the house."

Only now that this has been pointed out to her does Belle realize that she's indeed not in the bathroom that's attached to her own chambers… that she must have been so out of it when she came here, she didn't even notice she was being guided through  _his_ personal quarters.

"Shall I go check up on him while you're getting dressed?"

"Yes, that would be great, thanks!"

"Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?"

"I will. I'm feeling much better, thanks to you and Mr. Gold."

"Call me if you need anything, okay?" Ruby says, placing her friend's phone on the edge of the tub. "I'll be right back."

Belle has barely started drying her hair, still reclining comfortably in the tub, when she hears an exclamation of surprise.

"Gold! I hadn't expected to find you here! Are you… are you okay? Shouldn't you be in a bath or something? You seem pretty cold as well. In fact, you look worse than Belle just did!"

His response is lost on her, but Belle quickly gets out of the tub to dry herself fully, so she can hopefully help him like he just assisted her. She doesn't know what's going on with him exactly, but it's not a good sign to her that he got even Ruby worried.

"Yes, she's fine, she's just getting out of the bath. Speaking of which, why didn't you take one yourself? It looks to me like you need it."

There's a brief murmur of words that she can't hear either, prompting her to throw some clothes on even more quickly.

"There's really nothing to worry about. She'll be out in no time, so you can see for yourself that she's all right then."

Having been too far gone to actually pay any mind to his bedroom when she went through it earlier, Belle had hoped that she could take a better look at it now, if only to satisfy her curiosity about the place where he spends his nights—when he can sleep at all.

But at the discovery that he is right outside the door, she immediately rushes to him as soon as she is decent. Finding a robe hanging on a hook on the door of the bathroom, she whisks it with her as she heads to the hallway where Ruby and their host are continuing their conversation.

"Hey," she greets him as soon as she spots him, her smile fading from her lips when she takes her first good look at him since they arrived at the lake which got them into this situation—along with her own impulsiveness, that is.

Still, it takes her a few more seconds than it should to process the sight. With him not wearing a full suit for the first time since she met him, but a navy blue robe, she finds it yet more difficult not to openly stare in appreciation. If the glimpses of bare skin at his throat and legs are any indication, he must have very little underneath.

"Hey," he echoes, smiling a little at her arrival.

"Why didn't you take a bath as well?" she asks, noticing that he's still trembling and looking rather pale.

"This tub is the only one I can use," he admits with some reluctance, a gesture towards his bad leg reminding her of the holding bars and lowered step in the bathroom she was just in.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Gold, I had no idea… If I had known I was preventing you from taking a bath in your own house…"

"Nonsense, Miss French, there's nothing to apologize for. Knowing that you are in good health is all I need. Besides, it's not as if we could both have used the tub at the same time."

She doesn't necessarily agree with  _that_ , but her wishful thoughts have done enough damage for one day.

"At least go sit by the fire in the library," she insists, recalling what he advised her when she was in the exact same condition as he appears to be now. "What were you doing here anyway?"

When he only shrugs in response, lowering his head again, she concludes that he must have waited for her, to leap into action in case she needed anything else, neglecting his own well-being.

"Come on, let's go there now," she urges, linking her arm through his.

To her relief, he accepts the offer and, more importantly, follows her down the stairs. He leans quite heavily on her as he does so, and although supporting him is the least she can do after he all but carried her into his home earlier, she's horrified by how cold and stiff he has gotten.

"Just a little bit further," she encourages him as they reach the bottom of the staircase.

To her bewilderment, there's a mattress lying on the floor of the library, right in front of the hearth where a bright fire is burning once more. It's covered by the same pillow and blanket she must have left on the couch this morning.

"How did that get there?" she asks, almost afraid that she's starting to hallucinate after all.

"I put it here for you, in case you wanted to settle by the fire after your bath," he says, as if it were the most normal thing for him to do.

"I'd say that it is a very good idea, but the person who sits here by the fire isn't going to be me."

She dreads to think how cold he must have been in the first place, if he's still looking and feeling like this despite the considerable exertion it must have taken to drag this thing all the way from one of the bedrooms upstairs—or even the attic.

"But who else…"

If it weren't for the current situation, Belle would almost be amused by his occasional ability to completely fail to see the obvious when it's all but hitting him in the face.

"If there's someone who should be warming up right now, it's you."

"But…"

"Come on, why don't you get comfortable?" she says, guiding him towards the hearth.

"I had a glass of scotch, Miss French. Your assistance and kindness are very much appreciated, but I can assure you that…"

"Let someone else take care of you for once, all right?" she offers gently, squeezing his hand in the same manner. "We can lie down here together, if that's what you'd prefer."

" _No!"_ he exclaims, the statement stronger than anything he's said or done in all the time she's known him.

Instinctively, Belle steps away, taking her hand off him as she blinks away the tears that threaten to form in her eyes. She may have been increasingly convinced that he likes her quite a lot, at least to some extent, but it remains even clearer that he absolutely does not want to give in to or even acknowledge any affection or desire he may feel for her.

"I'm sorry, Miss French," he says, lowering his head in almost tangible contrition. "Please forgive me. I… I shouldn't have taken that tone. I'm beyond grateful for what you're doing for me, and the fact that you have nothing but good intentions for me."

His movements are strained and she rushes back to his side to assist him, wordlessly accepting his apology, even if it wasn't the one that she was hoping for. Still, as she is the one tucking him in now rather than the other way around, the fire in the hearth warming both of them, it's easier to forget that any feelings she may have for him are bound to be unrequited.


	10. Saturday, 1.05 pm

Although Mr. Gold is neatly covered by a blanket and sitting right in front of a fire, which she makes sure to keep burning brightly, Belle still isn't pleased by what she sees. He is shivering despite her precautions, his eyes tightly shut.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, sitting on the edge of the mattress, right next to him.

"Cold," he admits after a few seconds, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

"Do you need us to call a doctor?" she asks, not entirely convinced when he shakes his head—probably as fervently as she did when he made the exact same suggestion to her earlier this afternoon.

"No, thank you. Some more scotch would be very welcome, though," he admits—moving to sit up as if to retrieve it himself, to her great bewilderment.

"You're not going anywhere while you're in this state," she announces, gently but insistently helping him lie back on the mattress in front of the fire.

Before she can ask him where to find the liquid warmth he's requested, Ruby has already returned from the kitchen with a bottle and a glass in her hands.

"Well, that was quick," she remarks with quite some relief, especially when he doesn't even open his eyes to acknowledge her comment.

After a moment of hesitation, she scoots closer to him, putting down the glass and the bottle for now. First of all, she's going to have to find a way to help him drink properly.

"Mr. Gold, I'm going to prop your head on my knee so it's easier for you to have some of this. Is that all right with you?"

When he nods weakly, she carefully takes the back of his head in both hands and guides it to the designated part of her body. She doesn't linger on the softness of his damp hair, or the fact that his features seem yet more beautiful than she thought now that she can see them from this close.

"I'm filling the glass, and I'm going to hold it in front of you so you can drink," she announces when he still doesn't lift his eyelids, even the back of his head feeling cold against her knee.

At least he's able to sip a bit of the liquid on his own, slowly downing the glass. To encourage him, she can't stop herself from stroking his hair, in a mostly innocent gesture—although she can't resist the temptation to caress his neck lightly for a few forbidden seconds as well.

She ceases immediately when he shivers again, fearing that it is discomfort with her actions that is causing his response, rather than the cold still bothering him.

"Does that make you feel better?"

To her relief, his nod is small but unmistakable. When the glass is empty, she moves to fill it again, but he shakes his head.

"We'll be in more trouble yet if you get me drunk, Miss French."

"Is that so?" she murmurs, not imagining that he might ever get unpleasant, not even with all his inhibitions gone.

She can't help but feel that she'd like him yet more if he stopped keeping his guard and walls up all the time—in fact, she almost wishes he would. Which obviously doesn't mean she'll coax him into drinking more alcohol than he's actually comfortable with.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Just… can we stay like this? For a little while?"

"Of course," she replies, delighted to find that her hand is still in his hair, and that he appears to approve of the gesture. "Is this all right?"

It's better yet to touch him like this after he has nodded in agreement, ensuring her that he truly is comfortable with it.

"I suppose this is as good a moment as any to apologize for my ill-thought actions by the lake," she says, wanting him to know sooner rather than later how sorry she is for having endangered both her well-being and his own in such a way.

"Well, it isn't too bad."

"I don't agree with that," she replies, wondering what on earth he's talking about—especially when his teeth seem to chatter as he speaks.

"If it hadn't been for you, I might have been playing chess against myself and sitting behind my spinning wheel for the rest of my life."

"Well, the way I look at it, this is hardly an improvement," she comments, feeling like she couldn't ever have imagined, even as little as an hour ago, that they would ever end up in such a situation with any host, let alone this so very stoic and impeccable man.

"I beg to differ."

It would be so much easier to not get more attached to him than she should, to ignore her ever-growing attraction, if he stopped looking at her like this, especially while sounding like she's the best experience he's known in a long time.

"Either way… I'm very sorry for having acted so foolishly, Mr. Gold."

"You don't owe me any apology at all, but if you insist on offering me one anyway, I give you all my forgiveness."

"Thank you, that means a lot. Now, how about you getting better, while you're at it?"

"You are a demanding mistress, Miss French."

Although she would love to think that he doesn't sound bothered by that at all—quite the opposite—there is simply no way of telling, as his speech is becoming less intelligible. But even now, she can't help but shiver in a wholly different and more pleasant way as he refers to her like this.

"You do realize that skin-on-skin contact is by far the best way to manage such a situation, right?"

Belle starts at the sound of her friend's voice, having rather forgotten that Ruby is right there in the room with them, filming everything they say and do—and suggesting that Mr. Gold and she get  _naked by the fire_ , apparently.

For a moment, she fears she couldn't hold back a squeal at  _that_  prospect—but then she realizes that the sound came from none other than the businessman himself. Yet the fact that her friend's voice is matter-of-fact rather than teasing, informing her that even she is worried about him, brings her attention straight back to the issue at hand, rather than its gorgeous subject.

"Come on, I can't be the only one who's thinking this?" Ruby exclaims, gesturing towards the two of them and the mattress they're currently sitting on.

"Indeed not, Miss Lucas," he murmurs, his voice rough. "But I couldn't  _possibly_  ask Miss French, or you for that matter, to…"

"You don't have to ask, do you?" Belle interrupts him, starting to sense that it's fear for her comfort rather than his own that's holding him back.

"Please don't feel like you owe me  _anything_ , especially…"

"I  _want_  to… snuggle with you," Belle finds herself blurting out, telling herself that she is only admitting this to get him to accept her invitation to share her warmth—rather than thinking that… well, she's simply unable to  _not_ tell him at this point.

He stares at her with wide, disbelieving eyes—and then, much to her surprise, he nods in a rather similar way. He must be in yet worse shape than she feared to accept her increased nearness so quickly.

"You… you're all right with that? With me being right there with you…" she brings out, as if his incredulity was contagious.

His expression softens and he nods again rather eagerly, doubtlessly aware that she is the only source of additional warmth still available to him.

"You guys do realize that it only works with bare skin against bare skin, don't you?" Ruby asks from the background, her tone becoming speculative after all.

"I'm certain that physical nearness would be more than enough for a good start at increasing his body temperature," she quickly replies before he can point out himself that he does  _not_  want to get any closer to her than is strictly necessary. "Don't you agree, Mr. Gold?"

"I concur. Surely being anywhere near you will be more than enough to warm me up."

Not allowing herself to wonder what his even tone may or may not imply, she realizes that she's got no idea how to actually do this… and that the mattress he's already lying on isn't all that large. Surely it wouldn't be difficult as such to lie down at his side, but to do so without making him uncomfortable and evoking yet more evidence of his dislike of being in such a position with her… well, she just can't see how to achieve that.

"Just let me know how you want to do this, Miss French."

Strangely, she finds courage in the way he lets her have control, in the trust he implicitly places in her.

"Tell me if I get too close?"

He nods slightly, his gaze heavy on her as she kicks off her heels and lies down on the mattress from which he has temporarily pulled away the blanket. He puts it back as soon as she's settled, wrapping them, for all intents and purposes, in a cocoon of sorts.

There are a few inches of space left between them. Although she can practically feel the chilliness radiating off him, she doubts there's much point in the heat coming off her in such a situation, even though it significantly increases now that she is, in a way, sharing an improvised bed with the man who seems to be getting her more and more infuriated with each passing hour.

"Miss French, please don't think me too forward, but is it all right with you if I…"

" _Yes_ ," she breathes, even before actually knowing what it is he's going to request.

She hadn't exactly expected for him to brush his positively freezing feet against her, but in retrospect, she should hardly be surprised that  _this_  would be the particular, least offending part of him with which he chooses to seek her out.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" he murmurs in reaction to her.

"No, it's perfectly all right. You surprised me, that's all. But not in a bad way."

"I… I'm glad."

"Come back?" she asks quietly, not quite knowing how to formulate a more eloquent request for him to warm his feet against her legs again.

Fortunately, it turns out that he understands her perfectly. This time, her gasp is one of delight rather than shock when he brushes the side of his feet against her lower legs, the contact leaving him gasping. The same goes for her, but that has very little to do with different temperatures, and rather more with this previously unimaginable contact between them.

"This feels a lot better," he whispers, scooting an inch or so closer. "Thank you so much, Miss French."

"The way I see it, we are only getting started," she replies, noting that he's still almost as far away as he can without actually falling off the mattress. "Move closer?"

For a moment, she thinks he'll take her up on that offer, smiling very, very tentatively and shifting slightly nearer. But then he abruptly draws away again, his expression hardening like a candle has just been extinguished in him.

"That won't be necessary, Miss French."

His voice is as painfully neutral and indifferent as the moment she met him, but she can't help but spot a flickering of hope in his eyes. Although she tells herself that it's only wishful thinking, it feels like there's still a part of him that is reaching out to her and wants nothing more than to hold on to her for all he's worth.

But as it is, he makes certain not to touch her despite the limited surface they're occupying. The businessman also closes his eyes for good measure, as if he can't even stand the sight of her. Although physically, she's fully recovered from her failed adventure in the lake and there's a fire right next to her, she's feeling very cold once more.


	11. Saturday, 2.15 pm

When she drifts back into consciousness, Belle thinks she's dreaming at first. She's feeling wonderfully warm and as comfortable as she's ever been, if not more so. Still half-asleep, she sighs happily, intuitively burying herself more deeply in this feeling of utter contentedness and happiness.

When doing so, she burrows into the solid but quite welcoming shape right next to her. Only when her eyes flutter open, her dream feeling a lot more realistic that it ought to, does it dawn on her that she's actually snuggling with the man she's so very attracted to.

Recalling only too well how Mr. Gold made very clear that he doesn't want to be near her like this, she almost immediately moves away, no matter how much she'd love to remain in that exact same position.

But as she tries to shift back to the side of the mattress, Belle finds that this isn't possible. Something is holding her right where she is, namely against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin as if the two of them were made to lie together like this.

Yet more strangely, the reason for that turns out to be the arms of the businessman himself.

Finding herself curled up in his embrace while one of her own hands rests on his side under the blanket, Belle wonders whether she's dreaming after all. But as Mr. Gold lets out a soft noise and presses her a bit more firmly against him, the sound is so utterly intoxicating that she knows even her own vivid imagination couldn't have made it up.

Never mind that she couldn't have dreamed of actually ending up in such a situation with him, not after the way he rejected her nearness before the two of them must have dozed off. There's no doubt in her mind that he must be in a very profound sleep indeed—if only because of his complete lack of rest during the previous night.

Any lingering doubt about his well-being luckily vanishes when she feels his chest rising and falling steadily, just below the side of her head.

Marveling at how  _right_  it feels to be so near him, Belle closes her eyes again, inhaling deeply as she allows herself to enjoy this moment for however long it may last. She's wholly surrounded by his scent and physical presence, his body feeling perfectly warm now, rather than worryingly chilly. His embrace is tight, though not restricting; she could easily move away from him, but not without waking him, if she wanted to… and she very much does not.

A sudden movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention, momentarily diverting it from the wonderfulness she's currently experiencing. Having first assumed that this distraction would come to end this near-stolen embrace with her host, she's pleased to find that it's only Ruby, approaching them with an excited grin on her face as she goes in for a close-up.

"How long was I asleep?" she whispers, only her eyes flickering meaningfully at Mr. Gold and herself in her determination to avoid waking him for as long as she possibly might.

"Not long. Only half an hour or so."

"And how long have we been like… like this?"

"For about twenty-nine minutes."

"That's not funny, Ruby. This may seem hilarious to you, but to me, it really is not."

"I'm not joking. I wouldn't do that to you, hon, I know what this guy means to you. The two of you really fell asleep at about the same time, and you both moved to the middle of the mattress. Believe me, I kept track, time stamps and all," she says, gesturing at the camera.

Belle would  _love_  to see that footage sooner rather than later, but at the moment, she's got something a lot better yet to enjoy. Now persuaded that she and Mr. Gold have gravitated towards one another in their sleep, that this embrace is his doing as much as her own, she basks in the sensation of being held by a man she likes, trusts and desires so very much.

No length of time spent this way could ever be enough in her opinion, not even with Ruby's recordings to fall back on afterwards, but regardless, he wakes far sooner than she'd hoped. And rather than slowly drifting back to consciousness, he comes around with such a jolt that she can actually feel it in her body, right with the accompanying panic.

"Miss French, what on earth…?!" he brings out, staring at her with a terror that seems to go beyond any personal dislike of her.

"Try to relax," she replies as calmly as she can, ignoring the urge to reach out for him, as her touch would doubtlessly only make him more upset. "We both fell asleep, and…"

"Please, Miss French, I… I must beg your forgiveness. There's no way I can justify this, and I dread to think what it might be like for you to…"

"There's nothing to forgive!" she cries out, yet more bewildered by his actions than she was before they fell asleep. "Please don't think that  _I_  am the one to…"

"But this can't possibly be pleasant for you," he states with just as much conviction, his gaze roaming over her face restlessly, as if looking for any sign to confirm this strange hypothesis that he appears to have.

"It is, though!" she protests, increasingly confused that he seems distressed for her sake rather than his own.

"But…"

Not allowing herself to wonder just yet what other misconceptions might exist between them, and remembering only too well how amazing it was to just  _be_  with him rather than question everything, she longs to hold on to that feeling for at least a little while longer, if at all possible.

"Mr. Gold, I… I am very comfortable, and I'd really like us to spend a bit longer like this. Is there any chance that you'd agree to do that, and that we may continue this conversation later?

"If  _you_  don't mind being in this position with me…"

"I don't mind at all!" she exclaims again, wondering how he could possibly think the contrary, but unwilling to ask him right now.

"Well, in that case… but please, feel  _very_ free to notify me in case you…"

"I will," she murmurs vaguely, hardly listening to him any longer at the prospect of getting, for all intents and purposes, to  _cuddle_  with the infamous Mr. Gold, while he's awake no less.

She's pleasantly surprised that they hardly drifted away at all, not even when he so roughly awakened. That way, it's almost…  _easy_  to close the limited distance between them again. The businessman tenses when she, unable to help herself, scoots straight back against his chest. Within seconds, however, he places his hand purposefully on her lower back, drawing her further into him.

In addition to being certain that he's  _choosing_  to find himself in this situation this time, she enjoys his embrace yet more than before when she now finds her face resting against a part of his chest that is not covered by his dressing gown. Before she can give herself permission to do so, she is already practically  _nuzzling_  the tantalizing glimpse of bare skin.

Much to her relief, she can find it in her to persuade herself to stop mortifying him like this after only a few seconds—yet she finds that she shouldn't have bothered. He does let out a sound of unmistakable frustration… but only a few seconds after she has withdrawn.

Not daring to put any of this into words, unsure she would know what to say even if she dared to open her mouth right now, Belle goes for a yet more tentative approach. Slowly, so slowly that her movements hopefully don't seem purposeful at all, she returns to her previous spot against his chest.

When he makes another soft noise, she's convinced enough of its longing undertone that she brings her nose to his skin again, brushing it against him. He sighs in a way she can only categorize as approving, so she repeats the action, a bit more firmly this time.

That's how Belle does end up nuzzling his chest, even going as far as to brush her lips against his warm skin for one glorious moment. She doesn't know how it's possible, doesn't even particularly care right now, but the man who almost didn't invite her into his house in the first place now appears rather delighted by the way she's touching him.

"You saved me, you know," he murmurs, right as he unknowingly pleases her yet further by burying his face in her still damp and by now probably extremely unruly hair.

"If I recall, it was actually the other way around," she remarks, shuddering in mortification when she thinks back of the events that indirectly caused their currently all but sharing a bed in front of the fire in the library.

"Oh no, you definitely are the one who does most of the saving by far."

Absently noticing but not wanting to question the fact that he's talking in present tense, as though this disputable rescue is still ongoing, she doesn't want to think and over-analyze at all for the time being. Thankfully, that is surprisingly easy when his unspoken intention appears to be similar—namely to just hold her in a loving embrace.

In fact, he seems to grow bolder in the best way possible. His fingers caressing her waist—or rather the blouse that covers it—with feather-light pressure, he simultaneously all but rubs his face against her hair and her forehead like some sort of overgrown cat.

Just as unable to lie still, Belle eagerly rubs her legs against his still slightly cool ones, also tightening her hold on him when this doesn't lead to any protest. Just when she feels convinced that this can't possibly get any better, Mr. Gold moves his head yet further down than before, pressing his lips against her forehead for one blessed second.

As if he hadn't been reluctant for anything of this kind all along, he places both of his no longer cold hands on her back, splaying them as wide and broadly as he can, though without making any further attempt to touch her. If only he could give any indication that he'd be comfortable with that, Belle would be very happy to say the least to run her hands all over his back… and much more of him, really, if only he would like her to.

As it is, she can at least enjoy his welcoming embrace, and appreciate… yet a sudden grumbling noise puts an end to that intoxicating prospect, especially when she realizes that it's her own stomach that just caused this interruption.

"You must be famished," he remarks, immediately moving away from her. "I should have realized… It must be getting rather late. It's been quite a while since we had breakfast, and…"

"It's hardly the end of the world," she murmurs, more endeared than anything that he's so concerned about her well-being, even in that regard.

Mr. Gold himself looks as if he would happily have stayed with her like this for a very long time, if it weren't for some physical necessities.

"I know," he replies quietly, "and actually, I… I don't want to get up."

With any other person, she would feel pretty secure at this point that they at least share her fondness for snuggling like this. But it is an understatement to say that Mr. Gold has proven to be rather contradictory; if she moves away from him now, there's no way of knowing whether she'll ever get to be in his arms again.

"Me neither. I'd love to stay just like this."

 _For the rest of my life_.

"Well, maybe…"

"Maybe what?" she asks, delighted by his rather hopeful expression.

"There's a fire within reach, and there are marshmallows in the kitchen…"

"We could roast and eat marshmallows right here!" she exclaims, almost childishly excited.

That doesn't feel so embarrassing at all when the businessman grins back at her with at least as much enthusiasm.

"I'll go get them," Ruby says, reminding Belle that her friend is right there with them in the room, camera and all, even though she had completely forgotten about that for the first time in… well, ever.

"You are welcome to join us, Miss Lucas," their host adds rather sheepishly, having clearly lost all awareness of her for the first time as well.

"Nah, I already took the liberty of grabbing something for myself while you slept," Ruby responds as she quickly heads towards the kitchen. "Don't do anything while I'm gone!"

Belle almost rolls her eyes at that; it's not as if the businessman was likely to ever do anything more than holding her as coyly as he has all this time, let alone while they're alone for such a very short while.

"Second cupboard on the left,"he instructs Ruby, although his gaze is solely on Belle once more.

Her hunger for anything other than him only becomes an afterthought again when she looks back into his eyes. This moment remaining just as thoroughly enjoyable with or without marshmallows, she goes back to relishing it while awaiting Ruby's return.


	12. Saturday, 4.45 pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier I somehow forgot to post this chapter, which is supposed to go between the current chapter 11 and 12.  
> I'm uploading it here now as chapter 18, and I'll put it in its right spot once people have read this chapter.

No matter how delicious the marshmallows turn out to be, Belle is only partially aware of their taste as she watches the man who is insisting on giving her at least half of the one he has just roasted above the fire. Instead, all her senses are focused on him—his features yet more beautiful than usual now that they are illuminated by the fire in the hearth.

"Come on, Miss French, take this," he says, pointing towards her with a stick holding another marshmallow.

"I couldn't," she answers, although she's admittedly tempted to devour yet more of the succulent and lovingly prepared treats.

"Of course you can. This is the least I can do after falling asleep rather than providing lunch for you."

"Well, we both fell asleep, so I wasn't exactly ready to eat anyway. Besides, this is much more fun!"

"Indeed," he murmurs, getting another piece of candy in the fire.

It reminds her that her own is almost done, prompting her to take it. But rather than eating it, she decides it's high time for Mr. Gold to have some food of his own. It's hardly surprising that he begins to protest when she offers it to him, but it is a pleasant shock to see that he actually accepts it regardless when she simply brings it to his lips, coaxing him to open his mouth.

Her breath hitches in her throat when he closes it again, her suddenly trembling fingers brushing accidentally against his chin. His eyes are shut as he purposefully chews the food she offered him, his low groan of appreciation rousing in her a hunger that even all the marshmallows in the world couldn't satisfy.

To her delight, he offers his next one to her in a similar fashion, although his hand doesn't stray near her mouth after he has tentatively placed it between her lips. Her eyes close, too, if only to imagine him stroking her cheeks and nose, or even her mouth, with these same fingertips.

"Can't have your audience thinking that I'm starving my guests," he remarks, his voice rather hoarse as she hears him take another marshmallow from the bag.

"Oh no, we really couldn't," she replies absent-mindedly, by now mostly oblivious to the fact that she has an actual audience—and a rather large one, at that.

Her hopes that his offerings will become more intimate are in vain, however—which also prevents her from getting more adventurous when returning the favor. Even this morning, she couldn't have imagined the two of them practically feeding each other their lunch, right in front of a roaring fire—but now she can't help but long for a lot more closeness than this.

Still, that doesn't mean that she wishes this might end—quite the opposite. But although he seems to drag it out as much as she does, even holding the marshmallows further away from the fire than seems strictly necessary at some point, the bag is empty and their stomachs are full far sooner than she'd like.

"I should probably get this back where it came from," he says, gesturing at the mattress they're still sitting on before straightening his dressing gown.

Quickly looking away from the few inches of the skin of his chest his gesture unknowingly revealed, she nods in agreement. No matter how much she'd like to stay exactly like this for a long, long time, she clearly is the only one who feels that way.

"Let me help you with that," she offers as he tries to lift up the mattress on his own as soon as they're back on their feet.

Mr. Gold looks like he's about to object, if only because she's his guest, but he does acknowledge that she's only too happy to assist him. Besides, he may have gotten the mattress down without any help—although quite how is still beyond her—but gravity isn't in his favor this time.

Between the two of them, it remains quite the effort to even get the mattress to the staircase. Although it doesn't weigh all that much, its shape refuses to cooperate. Of course, Ruby is right there with them, but it seems much more fun for her to record two small and not very muscled people all but wrestling like this.

Halfway down the staircase, Belle can't help but giggle, imagining how silly they must be looking. That, in turn, reminds her of a book she once read, featuring a bunch of children sliding down a staircase not quite unlike this one on a mattress.

"I was just thinking about sliding down on this thing," she says in response to his questioning gaze.

"Well, you don't only have to think about it, if you like."

The implicit offer is so unlike whatever she might have expected from the infamous businessman, even after getting to know him like she has in the past twenty-four hours or so, that it takes her a long moment to realize he isn't actually kidding.

"Are you saying that we…" she verifies, gesturing from the mattress to the stairs and back again.

"Yes, it's quite entertaining," he says, as if he were actually speaking from experience.

"Well, if you don't disapprove…"

Never mind how wonderful this addition will be for the show. This is about making a childhood dream come true, in a house she's grown very fond of despite having only spent a day there, and accompanied by a man who… well, best not to go there again.

"Not in the slightest, Miss French. This is probably the most amusement my house has to offer, so I'd very much advise you to indulge yourself."

"I'd love to unleash my inner child, but you have to know that I've been having a delightful time since the moment I got here," she replies, wondering how he can even think that she might be bored.

True, in terms of spectacular television or deep interviews, this episode is on the underwhelming side so far, but getting to know the elusive businessman is yet better to her than being in his gorgeous and extensive library.

Grinning in delight and barely able to believe that she's going to do this for the first time in her life, Belle places the mattress on the edge of the first flight of stairs. Barely aware for once that he is watching her intently, a small smile on his face, she wriggles on her current mode of transport until it gains enough momentum to start sliding down the stairs with her on top of it.

She is laughing out loud by the time she makes it downstairs, the polished wooden floors enabling her to keep moving for a bit longer as she reaches the ground floor again. As soon as the mattress is lying still after all, she all but jumps to her feet and manhandles it all the way back up.

"Can I go again?" she asks, almost giddy, once she's back where she was a minute ago.

"Of course. Would you like me to give you a push so you'll go faster?"

"That would be great," she beams, feeling a slight disappointment when he places his hands on the mattress rather than on her for leverage, although he does have her going twice as fast as before.

"Would you like to try as well?" she suggests when she returns again, her enthusiasm giving her the hope that he might actually agree to this.

To her delight, he does exactly that… and right as she moves away from the mattress, certain that he wouldn't want to share this mode of transport with her, she sees him falter.

"You don't want to, with me…? No, of course you don't," he says, sounding almost… disappointed—and as self-deprecating as she's heard him so far.

"I'd love to! I wasn't expecting that, but I'd love to go together with you."

She all but jumps back onto the pad, patting the space she is leaving empty for him in a hopefully enticing manner. It may be the second time they share a mattress in not  _quite_ the way she increasingly wants to, but right now she's very happy to interact with him like this regardless—almost as if they were two carefree children.

Settling down as they prepare to do this together takes a lot longer than when she went on her own. And by the time Mr. Gold has put his cane aside and leaned on her so as to sit behind her, there's still the delicate matter of where he is going to put his hands to sort out.

Her waist seems like the obvious choice for him to hold on to, especially since his legs are stretched out on either side of her and he can't properly stabilize himself with his bad one. After some discussion and fluttering, he insists on placing his palms on her shoulders, which seems like the only unusual course to her.

Then again, she's still trying to process the apparent fact that the infamous Mr. Gold, of all people, is basically going to sledge through his house on an old mattress with her—so the term "unusual" is rather relative right now. Especially when they finally actually make their way down the stairs, shrieking with joy as they do so, and a highly unexpected sound comes from behind her.

She looks back, almost startled, before they're entirely still. All thoughts of mattresses and staircases are gone when she finds Mr. Gold laughing out loud in undeniable enjoyment. He looks right back at her, his smile not falling.

Belle wouldn't go as far as to think that he seems like a completely different man this way—but he does appear so much more relaxed and open. If she hadn't already been starting to fall in love with him, she most definitely would have at that very time.

"There is another way, one that is yet better," he pants, clearly oblivious to the direction her thoughts are taking. "I can show you, if you like?"

It gives her the distinct impression that he has experienced this before, although she can't figure out for the life of her just how and  _why_  a man of his standing would do something this frivolous and seemingly pointless. She can't imagine him simply enjoying him such a thing in its own right, but here they are.

"That would be amazing!"

When they've gotten the mattress back up, her limbs rather heavy and her lungs quite empty by now, she returns downstairs to have the best view of whatever other approach he has in mind. To her surprise, he practically flings himself down on the mattress on his stomach—as if she wasn't finding it hard enough yet to keep her thoughts appropriate.

However, thinking at all turns out to become quite difficult a second later, when the speed with which he propelled himself forward has him coming at her much more quickly than she anticipated. By the time it registers in her mind that she's standing straight in his path and he's already sitting up and trying to get his mode of transport to stop prematurely, it's much too late.

The makeshift vehicle hits her ankles and although the impact isn't hard at all, it's still enough to knock her over, onto the oncoming mattress—and the businessman who is currently on it.

A second later, she is thrown on top of him, accidentally pinning him down on his back as she loses her balance. More breathless with their sudden and very close nearness than the actual collision, Belle finds herself practically nose to nose with him.

She must have knocked the wind out of him, for he is gasping as he looks up at her. She reacts in kind when she feels that her legs have ended up on either side of his, realizing that she accidentally ended up  _straddling_ him. Coyly cuddling with him by the fire was wonderful in its own right, but having him right between her thighs, his hands on her waist after all, is something else entirely.

He doubtlessly is only holding on to her to prevent her from collapsing yet further on top of him, just like he's probably only breathing so quickly because he's shocked to have her this close to him at all, let alone without warning. That must explain his wide and dark pupils, too.

Belle is very much aware that she should get off him and spare him any further discomfort, but her body is refusing to move. Idly noting that her hair is brushing against his face and her breasts pressing snugly against his chest, she stares into his eyes, as unreadable as ever.

His torso heaving beneath hers, she can't help but think that it would only take a minimal movement of her head to press her mouth to his. As if that wasn't bad enough, she can't help but stare at his lips and, worse yet, lick her own in unrequited longing.

If only they'd ended up like this in front of the hearth; if only he'd  _wanted_  to be with her this way; if only he could never want to let go of her again, either, and…

"It's getting late," he blurts out, staring at her with something she can only describe as panic. "I really should go to… to the kitchen. It's almost dinner time, and…"

He's practically babbling, clearly influenced by her nearness in a negative way. That prompts her to roll off him after all, wincing with the possibility that she's made him just as uncomfortable as she feared more than the hardness of the floor she lands on.

By the time she gets up on her knees, he's already all but fleeing the room, even though his cane is still on the staircase. Belle sighs deeply as she collapses back onto the mattress. Considering that the extent to which they are both drawn to each other and the way she keeps accidentally scaring him off seems to increase almost by the hour, she feels both wariness and a keen anticipation at the prospect of whatever the remainder of this weekend with him might bring.


	13. Saturday, 8.15 pm

"Thank you for another wonderful meal," Belle sighs in utter contentment, meticulously scraping the last remains of her desert off the plate.

"Yes, thanks for all this, Mr. Gold," Ruby pipes from across the table, sounding at least as impressed. "It's pretty awesome."

"It was a three-person effort," he says, as if he hadn't done most of the work—not to mention the fact that he didn't even glance at a recipe for any of the four courses, even while guiding them through the more simple tasks they carried out. "I'm just glad you enjoyed this meal."

"We definitely did. This is the best food I've had in ages," Belle enthuses, wishing she could have yet more of it, despite her full stomach.

"Well, you could always…"

Their host glances at her in that strange, hopeful way that sometimes comes over him, before tensing a little and quickly lowering his gaze. If she didn't know any better, she'd almost think that he was about to offer that she comes around for dinner again in the future, but that would be as bizarre as the apparent shyness he is now displaying.

Surely, he must have long sensed by now that she'd be more than happy to come to his house much more often, whether he'd be serving another meal worthy of a top-class restaurant or only providing her with some dry toast. His culinary skills are a very nice bonus, but it's hardly the main reason why she's so drawn to him.

"Let's see if we can top this tomorrow," is all he says, quickly standing up.

Knowing better than to suggest for him to relax while she washes the dishes, she gathers the plates and follows him to the kitchen. Yet more than the night before, Belle is taken aback both by how utterly at ease she feels in such a domestic scene with him, and how completely opposite the kind of life she'd expect from a ruthless self-made billionaire this is.

Now that she's thinking about it, she probably hasn't had such a quiet and peaceful day for quite a while, even taking the morning's misadventure in the lake into account. During the week, she's always doing behind-the-scenes work for the show, and on most weekends she's shooting it, spending all of her free time in the houses and lives of strangers who may or may not prove as interesting and welcoming as she initially expects.

Whenever she's not busy with that, she's trying to get other, less frivolous shows made—not successfully so far. In other words, most of her days are exhausting and not necessarily rewarding.

Not to mention the fact that she has become a celebrity in her own right. It's easy to forget when she's holed up in the studio or spending the weekend with people who are a lot more famous and influential than her, but she usually can't step out without being recognized, which is starting to get increasingly unpleasant.

But there is nothing remotely unrewarding, tiring or uncomfortable about  _this_  weekend. Even though Mr. Gold, tight-lipped as he is, could be considered as the worst host their show has had so far in quite a few ways, it's wonderful to be treated like an actual person rather than either a television figure or a temporary guest.

Yet of course, that's not the only reason why she enjoys being in his house so much. In fact, it pales in comparison to being with  _him_ , contradictory and elusive as he is—all shy smiles, gentle hands and wiry muscle.

"You're never going to tell me how a man of your reputation ended up with the sort of life you've been showing us in the past day and a half, are you?" she remarks conversationally while they get started on the dishes.

A day ago, she probably would have been trying to pull some sort of revealing truth from him by catching him off-guard with such a seemingly casual remark. By now, however, she doesn't bother anymore—doesn't particularly  _care_  about much else than enjoying her time with him. Similarly, she's wholly convinced that this  _is_  his life: nothing but him in this old house, with no hint of the multi-billion dollar company he is supposed to run.

"Probably not," he replies, his attention remaining on the kitchenware in the soapy water.

Having only anticipated a response in the range of " _definitely_  not", she abruptly looks at him in surprise. If he notices the way he just drew her attention away from the cutlery in her hands, he doesn't show it.

"Is there any chance, however, that you might share why you wanted to have  _me_  on your show, of all people? I'm hardly the most… obvious choice for… well, for anything, I suppose."

Belle almost drops the items in her hand, not having expected at all that he would express interest in her motivations, let alone almost as off-handedly as she just did herself. The answer to his question would usually have been easy enough to express, if only to herself, but it's not as if a host on their show has ever actually asked this before—nor was she nearly as emotionally involved in those sleepovers.

"You're hardly the most well-known businessman in this country, but you're definitely the most intriguing one," she begins, choosing her words carefully. "I mean, the last publicly available picture of you is at least twenty years old, and I don't think anyone even knows your first name!"

Before the beginning of her visit, she figured that at least some people in his inner circle would be privy to that sort of information, but now she's increasingly certain that he doesn't even  _have_  an inner circle. Which makes him only more fascinating to her.

"So you were looking for someone with a relatively high profile, but low media presence," he concludes, expertly beginning to clean the sink after washing the last glass. "But I am hardly the only man of this kind in my profession, and I quite vividly recall turning down your request for an invitation no less than five times. Surely you could have gotten someone more interested than me… more  _interesting_ , for that matter. And yet here we are, whereas there hasn't been a single other businessman in the whole span of your show—although quite a few female colleagues did make appearances."

"I felt that you had a unique story to tell," she responds after a few long seconds of silence, choosing not to even pick up on the fact that he's surprisingly aware of the type of celebrities who do and don't appear on her program, for a person who was far from enthusiastic about it in his early responses to her and who, accidentally, doesn't own a television. "Besides, how could I not be intrigued by anyone who sends me handwritten letters in this day and age?"

"I found it very persuasive that you did the same for me in return," he notes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "And very witty and pretty missives they were, too."

Belle has never felt her own limited experience with romance more accurately than when she finds herself  _blushing_  at this praise of her handwriting and letters.

"So that was the reason you finally accepted to host us?" she asks, deflecting his attention with another question. "My handwritten letters?"

"Oh no, not at all," he says, smirking at her in that beautifully infuriating way of his. "I eventually realized that inviting you here was the only way to make you stop pestering me. I figured I might as well get over it."

It's clear to her that he isn't telling her the truth, or at least not the whole of it. But it's still  _something_  of an explanation, actually because it's probably the opposite of his actual motivations, which provides slightly more insight into what these might be—or at least, what does  _not_  motivate him.

"Is that why you're not showing me anything in your life that might actually relate to your career?" she inquires next, her most burning question from yesterday now a mere stepping stone to satisfying her current main curiosity.

"Who says I have a career?"

His words and teasing tone are quite like what she expected, which sets up her next question perfectly, just like she hoped.

"Indeed. All you have to offer are books, gorgeous nature, delicious food and actually challenging games of Scrabble—basically all of my favorite things in life, which you have been providing almost the entire time. Mr. Gold, I'd almost think you are trying to tempt me into not leaving."

It's not quite a joke, but an exaggeration meant to draw out the real reason why he's finally agreed to host her in his home… Yet he only stares at her with shocked, almost guilty eyes in response.

Almost dropping the towel in her hands, Belle mentally reviews her words, connecting them to his reaction. She gasps when she realizes that she's onto something here, something big. Although it's too ridiculous for words, especially considering his inconsistent behavior towards her so far, she can't help but sense that he wishes for her to stay a lot longer than this single weekend… and that he very much doesn't want to harbor that desire.

 _At all_.

"Now why would I want you to stay?" he asks softly after a long, long moment of silence.

"You tell me," she replies, stepping towards him.

"I'm not the one making such inane statements," he says in turn, stepping backwards.

Realizing that this seems to make him uncomfortable, Belle moves back again to give him more physical space, but she doesn't look away from him, nor does she drop the topic. Her breath rapid and her heartbeat fast, she finds that she's hardly prepared for this sort of questioning.

"I'm not the one refusing a television host for years, only to spoil her rotten when you finally do invite her."

"Why would I not spoil you?" he says rather sharply, his teeth bared. "Seeing how this weekend will be broadcast to the entire nation, I don't want people to think I'm neglecting my guests."

And there it is: a hint of the cruel businessman he's rumored to be. But more than anything, what she picks up from him are a lonely sort of gentleness, and the intuitive feeling that he wouldn't hurt a fly—or at least, as long as said fly didn't attack first.

For all intents and purposes, it feels to her like  _she_ is attacking him now, though only to try and make a bit more sense of his intentions and feelings towards her. But Belle isn't scared, quite the opposite—she still can't help but be intrigued by him, fueled by the instinctive belief that he would never harm her in any way.

"Since when does 'not neglecting guests' include washing their feet, tucking them in on the couch, saving them from a cold lake and cuddling with them on a mattress by the hearth?" she inquires, mirroring his movements when he steps towards her again after all.

She had anticipated just about anything in response to that, except for the raw panic which flickers in his eyes when she sums up the far from orthodox moments they have shared in the past day and a half. He is also breathing hard, glancing at the door that leads back to the living room as if it were some sort of lifeline.

"Really, Mr. Gold," she says in a cooler tone, deciding to defuse the situation now that it's bringing awkwardness, perhaps anxiety, rather than revelations or even anger. "No one will think you are a poor host. If anything, I think you'll get a lot more requests for sleepovers once people see how gentlemanly you are with me."

As he looks at her as if he sees water burning and she has grown a second head at the same time, Belle can't help but be grateful that he doesn't believe her. She can't imagine him inviting anyone else to his house after his weekend, but if he actually ever did, she would very much want to be that person.


	14. Saturday, 9.55 pm

For all of her desire to spend more time with Mr. Gold after this weekend, Belle's first focus remains to start by doing so during the actual sleepover for which she's currently in his house. But after their rather confusing conversation in the kitchen, he all but fled to the basement, where she can see him spinning as she softly pushes the door ajar.

She figured that he needed to stay on his own for a while, if only because he simply isn't used to being around other people so much, let alone someone as inquisitive as her. But it's been almost two hours, and he still hasn't reemerged. She watches his back as he sits alone in the basement behind his spinning wheel, his hands moving without any apparent purpose.

Hating how miserable she looks, with his shoulders sagged and his head hanging, she can't bring herself to simply go back to her book in his divine library. Instead, she clears her throat and knocks on the slightly open door to announce her presence, descending into the basement when he doesn't indicate that he doesn't want her there.

"Hey," she greets him softly once she's at his side.

"Hey," he echoes without looking at her.

"Why don't you come upstairs? It's warmer and more comfortable there, as you are doubtlessly aware."

"Wouldn't you mind my presence? You're very welcome to just stay on your own with Miss Lucas; I'm perfectly fine down here."

"I'd like you to be there as well. Unless you don't want to, of course."

She tries to make sense of the discovery that he apparently thinks  _she_  doesn't want to be in the same room as him—which is one of the few possibilities she did  _not_  contemplate after their previous conversation.

"I'd like to," he murmurs, glancing up at her from behind his hair.

He seems almost like a schoolboy in that very moment, innocent and shy. At first, that may appear irreconcilable with what she saw of him earlier that evening—a hint of what must have given him his reputation of heartlessness.

But she likes to think that she's getting to know him, slowly but surely, and although there are still so many parts of his being she has barely got a glimpse of so far—and doubtlessly others she still hasn't seen at all—she tends to believe that he can be both of these extremes, simply because these two sides coexist inside of him, being displayed in turn depending on the situation and the people he's with.

"Let's go upstairs then," she says, thrilled when he gives her a tentative smile. "Can we take your spinning wheel to the library? Then you can continue your work there."

"That would be lovely."

With some effort, they manage to get the wooden construction to its new place by the hearth in the other room, quite close to what has become her favorite chair in his house—or in the entire world, probably.

She returns to her book, while Mr. Gold carries on spinning. Most of the time, she finds herself looking at him rather than the pages. She admires the angles of his face in the flickering light, his slight frame and elegant gestures.

Belle doesn't allow herself to realize just how very easy it is to imagine spending many more nights like this, in this very library and this very house, with him on his spinning wheel and she almost right next to him with a book. Going over to him, running her hands over his shoulders, twining her hands in his hair.

It's especially clear that something so wonderful would be highly unlikely to happen when he meets her gaze before immediately glancing away. He's clearly not interested or even comfortable with any of the contact she's getting increasingly eager for.

Before her thoughts can turn in a yet more pessimistic direction, the somewhat heavy silence is broken by the sudden sound of music. Belle turns her head so quickly that it leaves her neck aching, and her host reacts in a very similar manner, if the way she sees him rub his nape from the corner of his eye is any indication.

However, her attention shifts away from him when she spots Ruby in one of the corners of the room, where she is fiddling with a gramophone which she didn't notice before. The tune it produces is slow and lovely, and it occurs to her that it would be just perfect to dance to.

"Am I the only one thinking that this place could use some music?" her friend asks, looking pointedly between Mr. Gold and Belle. "It could almost be a ballroom here, one of these old-fashioned and fancy ones.  _Very_  suitable for dancing."

She shallows heavily at the suggestion as right then and there, there is nothing she would want more than to be in his arms as they sway lightly to the melody, their hands roaming over each other's body equally slowly. But it's not as if  _that_  was ever going to happen, especially when Mr. Gold glances at her with almost unmistakable horror.

"I'm sure Mr. Gold wouldn't like to dance with me."

"I'm certain Miss French wouldn't like to dance with me."

Her disappointment and, by the looks of it, even his very strong reluctance change into something quite different when they speak simultaneously, each referring to the other as the reason why they can't just move to the music together like Ruby is suggesting.

"I would very much enjoy dancing with you," Belle says, unable to hold back her probably quite excessive eagerness as she tries to let him realize just how delighted she feels at the idea.

"No, you wouldn't," he answers quietly, sounding utterly convinced of his own perceived undesirability.

"Why wouldn't I?!"

"It's not as if I  _could_  dance, is it?" he points out, gesturing at his cane and his bad leg, of which she still has no idea how it got damaged.

"Well, I barely know any actual steps myself, so there's no chance I can do a real ballroom dance. But maybe we can just… sway? Together? You can hold on to me."

"I…"

He seems conflicted, his not rejecting this invitation outright giving her hope that he isn't as opposed to dancing with her—opposed to  _herself—_ as  she often fears.

"I'd really like to do it," she adds softly, wanting him to know just how much she is looking forward to this prospect, although her longing might very well scare him off.

But instead of drawing back into himself again, shutting himself away behind his walls, he smiles at her tentatively. It gives her the courage to beam back at him, stand up and approach him.

"I'd like that as well," he admits once she is right in front of him.

"In that case: may I have this dance, Mr. Gold?"

She offers him her hand, thrilled when he takes it and allows her to pull him to his feet. He seems to have forgotten about his cane, and she's perfectly happy to support him as they step a few feet away from the spinning wheel to create some space around them.

"Tell me if you aren't comfortable with anything I do," she says, not wanting to risk rousing that barely revealed panic which sometimes comes over him.

"I don't think that could ever happen," he murmurs rather hoarsely, still clinging to her hand.

That remark doesn't make any sense to her, since it actually seems to occur an awful lot. The moment when he all but fled from beneath her after she accidentally fell on top of him in front of the hearth immediately springs to her mind.

"Although the same obviously goes for you," he adds, not making any move to actually hold on to her and  _dance_ .

What’s more, he looks at her as if  _he_ were  the one who was potentially making  _her_  uncomfortable—even though she craves much more emotional and physical contact with him than he'll doubtlessly ever be willing to give.

"Shall we… shall we start dancing and just find out what feels right?" he asks quietly, causing her yet another pleasant surprise by being the one to suggest this before she can offer the exact same invitation.

When she nods happily, he steps slightly closer to her again, and she marvels at the feeling of his warm and lean frame so close to her own body. Keeping a close eye on his face so as to detect any hint of rejection, she places her left hand on his shoulder and offers him her right so he can take it in his own.

He does so immediately, resting his own left palm very, very lightly against the curve of her waist. Not allowing herself to just  _feel_  until both of them have gotten somewhat used to being in each other's personal space, not wanting such a moment to end in confusion and flight again, she focuses on the music rather than him—to the best of her abilities, at least.

That's how they end up swaying gently in the middle of the library, lightly holding on to each other. After a few minutes or so have passed without any sign that their spontaneous dance will end anytime soon, Belle finally lets herself appreciate their closeness.

The first observation that strikes her is that Mr. Gold smells utterly divine. She already knew that, but the awareness seems to become stronger with each occasion she notices it. It's not just his applied scent, though that is utterly intoxicating; beneath it, she senses something less sophisticated, something that is entirely  _him_ , and yet more appealing to her.

As they move slowly in tune with the music, she finds that it's even more enjoyable to direct most of her focus to the points where their bodies touch. It feels  _good_ to be held like this, and hold someone in return; not because it's been ages since the last time she's done anything of the sort, let alone enjoyed it, but simply because it's thrilling and yet so very safe to be in his arms this way.

Belle finds herself relaxing further into him, instinctively shifting closer. She catches herself when he sharply inhales at her renewed approach, reminding herself that he probably doesn't want their dance to become more intimate. But when she moves backwards, he tightens his hold on her a little.

"Let's dance like this?" he suggests softly, almost shyly.

She's very happy to lean further into his embrace, without hesitation this time. He makes a soft noise when she gets so close that her nose brushes against his hair, and vice versa. Hearing him react like this, she doesn't bother trying to hold back the similar sound that he draws from within her.

For all of their misunderstandings and contradictory reactions in the short time they have known each other, it's strangely simple to get along like this—no talking, their bodies turning out to find their way to one another, just as long as they don't think too much.

"We've been doing this for quite a while," he says eventually, after an undefined amount of time has passed. "Do you want to stop?"

"I'd love to keep dancing with you," she murmurs, her voice partially muted, as the side of her face is pressed snugly against the warm fabric covering his torso.

"I'd love that as well," he whispers, sounding like she's given him a true blessing simply by prolonging this moment, which he can't possibly be enjoying as much as she is.

At some point, the gramophone reaches the end of the record, but Ruby starts it again before they can fully notice. Although it happened so gradually that she can't really tell the difference any longer, they must have gotten yet closer to one another, for at one point, her chest ends up flush against his and her arms are locked behind his back.

As if that wasn't wonderful enough, Mr. Gold rests his head on her shoulder, his breath warm and slow against her neck. She doesn't resist the temptation to raise her hand to caress his hair and the nape of his neck, basking in the sounds of appreciation he lets out in response.

Somehow, it feels like they've always been moving together like this—and like they won't ever stop.


	15. Saturday, 12.10 pm

"I had a lovely evening," he says when they reach the door of her temporary bedroom. "Thank you so much, Miss French. I can't express how much I've enjoyed your company."

"That is entirely mutual," she replies, something actually fluttering deep inside of her.

That feeling gets even more intense as she wishes that their evening wouldn't end for a long time yet—that they'd continue slowly moving together, in a more horizontal and daring fashion. Although they danced until midnight, his hands never strayed and she didn't dare explore his boundaries either, not wanting to ruin the status quo they seemed to have found, utterly enjoyable as it was in its own right.

Although she can't entirely forget that she's a television personality and that he is being featured on her show, this feels like they've just had their first date and they're both scraping their courage together for the kiss both of them are craving. Never mind that Ruby is lingering on the side of the hallway, filming their every word and action, and that she's got no idea whatsoever whether he wants the two of them to kiss just as badly as she does.

All she knows is that actually asking him that will probably send him balking again. That's the last thing she wants, especially since they've been doing so well in the past few hours—simply enjoying each other, without her doubts and his rejection.

"Is there anything else you'd like to do?" she asks, reaching out to stroke his lower arm, hoping that a subtle hint will get her further than a straightforward question.

"I… no, Miss French, not at all. It's late. I'll bid you goodnight."

He is already stepping away from her, even though she likes to think that his eyes are telling her he doesn't want to go at all—that he'd love to come into the bedroom with her.

"Good night, Mr. Gold," she says in return.

Rather than stepping away from her and heading straight towards his own room on the other side of the hallway, he lingers in front of her. She watches him breathlessly as he all but stares at her, as if both unable to believe that she's real and debating whether to do something or not.

She's thrilled when he opts for the latter option, questioningly reaching for her hand. She's got no idea what he's planning to do, but she happily stretches her entire arm to him, beyond curious of what might be next. Still, nothing could have prepared her for the way the businessman takes her hand in his own before slowly bringing it towards his face and briefly pressing his mouth against it, after a few seconds have passed without any objection from her.

Something inside of her  _clenches_  at the highly unexpected contact, and she's quite certain that this utterly chaste and chivalrous action aroused her more than anything or anyone else has ever done. It makes her wonder what it might be like to feel those gentle lips on other parts of her body, and…

"Good night, Miss French," he repeats, his voice deliciously hoarse.

This only leaves her more eager for him to join her in her bedroom rather than go to his own unaccompanied—but the latter is exactly what happens. As if shocked by his own apparently romantic gesture, he heads away as quickly as she supposes anyone can manage without losing their dignity—especially a man who has to rely on a cane.

"Wow, girl, you've got it  _bad_ ," Ruby remarks, jolting Belle into realizing that she is still staring at the door through which their host just disappeared.

"Can you blame me?" she sighs, staring in awe at the knuckles he just kissed.

"Not entirely. He's an amazing cook, if nothing else. Though I'm not exactly a fan of his whole hot-and-cold thing, not to mention the fact that he's too mysterious for his own good. We've been here for two days now and I still don't even know what this guy truly does for a living, or why he wanted us here in the first place if he's not going to show us anything about his actual life."

"I think that he  _is_. This  _is_  his life, or what's left of it. Although it's beyond me why he wants us here, as well."

"Well, I can tell why he wants  _you_  here right now," her friend snickers.

"Really?" Belle asks, her interest piqued. "I'd like to think the same, but…"

"My God, you really are dense," Ruby sighs good-naturedly. "That guy worships the very ground you walk on."

"I don't believe so. He practically flees from me whenever I try to make a move."

"You know I love you, hon, but you're hardly an expert in the art of seduction," Ruby replies, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Besides, that man has two decades on you and he's a complete hermit; he's probably just even more hesitant and clueless about it all than you are. But he's hopelessly in lust with you, regardless."

"What makes you say  _that_?"

"Come on, the two of you just did the dork version of Dirty Dancing."

"I don't think…"

"Go to his room tonight, Belle. Seriously. Be sure to wear—and bring—the items I added to your suitcase. I just  _knew_  it would come to this, considering the way you've been gushing about him for literally years."

She blushes when she thinks of using the negligee and condoms which, as it is now revealed, Ruby did indeed sneak into her luggage. It's not like she never crawls into bed with their hosts, that is more a rule than an exception, but it's always out of comradeship or banter, which everyone always understood—except for Killian Jones.

It seems like a bad idea to step into Mr. Gold's bedroom, both because he still flees from her pretty much half the time whenever she reaches out to him, and because the notion of joining him in bed for anything other than some midnight banter or interview feels rather overwhelming. Never mind the fact that they're still in the middle of shooting an episode.

"Suit yourself," Ruby shrugs, handing her the camera before heading towards her own room. "Text me if something interesting of a not NSFW variety happens while I'm asleep. I'll see you in the morning otherwise."

"Good night," she says, her mind still on the man in the room on the other side of the hallway.

"Good night," her friend echoes, already halfway to the room next to hers.

Sighing, Belle enters her own bedroom, switching on the light. At least she's got the prospect of sleeping in the room the businessman personally selected for her to look forward to, since she spent last night on the couch. Still, the pleasure of sleeping here on her own will pale in comparison to spending the night reading with him in the library, and being tucked in by him when she eventually falls asleep.

Not to mention that she still has no idea what his bedroom actually looks like. Still, it doesn't feel right to just walk in there without warning. But then again, she does know by now that he's an insomniac who favors reading and sitting behind his spinning wheel at night. The idea of "coincidentally **"**  running into him in such a context feels a lot more acceptable to her.

Smiling at the prospect, she brushes her teeth and changes into her pajamas, choosing the blue ones this time, which consist of little more than a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. She usually wears a bra underneath, as long as there might be cameras around, but this time she eagerly takes it off.

She has to remind herself not to get her hopes up too much, since there's no guarantee that she'll actually find Mr. Gold in any part of the house that's not his bedroom. Switching on the camera, she quietly opens the door and walks back into the hallway.

The sight that greets her when she steps out is so unexpected, so utterly breathtaking that she almost drops the device in her hand. With it angled uselessly towards the floor, Belle's mouth falls open when she's greeted with what is by far the most tempting sight she's seen since she came here.

The thought of "how" and "why" not occurring to her, she can only stare as she finds Mr. Gold on the other side of the hallway, a few dozen feet from her or so, clad in nothing but a towel. He appears to have taken a shower in the time she changed her clothes and brushed her teeth, for there are droplets of water dripping down his whole body.

The light is off in the hallway, but the bright moonlight that reaches into the house once more allows her to see just as well as any artificial light. If anything, the whole scene looks more enchanting yet in this almost fairytale-like setting.

He may look gorgeous in a suit, but that is nothing,  _nothing_ compared to the sight of his almost entirely bare self, his towel hanging low on his hips. She had already felt his subtle muscles, but to actually _see_  his lean and surprisingly tan frame practically leaves her drooling.

When she catches sight of the thick scar tissue on his ankle, she's even more fascinated, reminded of yet another part of him whose the story is all but begging to be told. To her, it only adds to his beauty.

Recalling after a moment how skittish he can be around her, Belle quickly looks back towards his face, expecting to read dismay at her seeing him like this in the first place, not to mention the way she was ogling him. But instead, he doesn't even seem to realize the way she's drinking in the sight of him, for he is rather busy doing the exact same thing to her.

Belle flushes with excitement when she finds him staring at her mostly bare legs, his eyes wide and dark. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, she takes that as an implicit invitation to take a better look at him.

She commits as much of his being to memory as she can, her eyes roaming over his arms and chest before they settle on the trail of dark hair leading down his abdomen. It's incredibly exciting to see him like this, especially since it's such a contrast to the completely immaculate image he usually presents, even in the comfort of his own home.

As her eyes, after a detour via his narrow hips, return to his face to ascertain that he's still comfortable with this whole situation, she finds that his expression is the most beautiful part of him right now. He is licking his lips in a seemingly entirely subconscious manner, his usually almost overly polite gaze directed at her chest.

Unable to look away from his eyes, she shivers pleasantly once she becomes quite certain what he's staring at—namely what her thin top is revealing, now that she's being treated to such visual stimuli in this chilly hallway. She may have been unable to believe Ruby when she tried to persuade her that their host desires her, but now, she can no longer deny that he feels at least some level of attraction.

Indeed, this becomes more obvious yet when she notices something stirring beneath his towel. She gasps, heat gathering between her legs as she finds out what the mere sight of her in a set of casual pajamas is doing to him. Really, she might be able to make good use of the condoms in her suitcase after all, and she won't even need the negligee, now that…

Mr. Gold abruptly glances down himself, as it belatedly realizing that he appears to be aroused. That seems strange in its own right, but the situation turns in a yet more disappointing direction when he looks at himself at utter dismay, for some reason appearing  _horrified_  by his body's reaction to her.

"I'm so sorry," he grinds out, his gaze now firmly fixed on the floor, the spell between them clearly broken. "I should never have…"

He moves to cover himself with his hands, but his arms are suddenly shaking so badly that he brushes against the towel instead, causing it to slacken around his waist. Her mouth falls open in response, her shock of an unpleasant kind this time as she realizes that he's about to be exposed to her, clearly against his wishes.

Still, she can't look away to save her life, watching the towel lose its battle against gravity as though in slow motion. It comes loose, starting to fall… only for him to grab it at the very last second, clutching the fabric in his hand, right in front of the most private part of himself.

Belle releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding, able to abruptly look away after all now that the awful suspension is over. Before she finds herself glancing at the floor between them as well, she catches the look of utter humiliation on his face.

Before she can tell him that he's got  _nothing_  to be ashamed of or self-conscious about—that in fact, she  _loves_  the way he looks—the businessman all but races back to his bedroom. She doesn't dare follow him, not even with her eyes, even as she finds that he didn't pause to think that the back side of his body is entirely exposed.

Or then again… maybe he knows exactly what he's doing, at least in this regard. After all, he's got the nicest rear she's ever seen by far—which only makes her more determined to find a good way to let him know how very attractive he is to her.


	16. Sunday, 2.50 am

The events of the past two days not ceasing to twirl through her mind, Belle eventually sits up on the bed, giving up on her attempts to sleep. She thinks of Mr. Gold, just three doors down the hallway, gentlemanly and contradictory and  _gorgeous_. He hasn't come out of his room—she would have heard him if he had—and more than anything, she can't stop thinking of the way he looked when she caught him all but naked just outside her door.

Not to mention that she doesn't even know if she can face him the next morning, having been wordlessly rejected by him even while desiring him yet more than she did a few hours ago.

Dismally thinking that she might never find out at all why he was standing almost entirely naked so close to her room, let alone why he fled the way he did, she figures that she might as well get up. If she can't sleep, then she had better spend her time in the library downstairs, with or without her host's delightful company.

Not bothering with the camera this time, she pulls on the dressing gown he has provided for her—the same color and shape as his own—and slips out of the room. As she makes her way to the stairs, she instinctively glances towards his bedroom and the two locked doors between them.

Belle almost misses a step when she realizes that the one next to his own is no longer so tightly shut; in fact, it's slightly ajar. Not thinking of remaining quiet any longer, she rushes to it. She's certain that this is no coincidence, and that whatever might be in there, Mr. Gold  _wants_  her to see it.

She's got no idea what to expect, but a moonlit interior that seems even more dated than the rest of the house is certainly not it. Although all of his home so far has left no doubt that he's a bachelor who has been living on his own for a long time, this place paints a very different picture—one of a period yet before that.

Thoughts flying uncontrollably through her mind again, albeit on a very different topic this time, she takes in the small bed and the toys which are neatly placed at various spots in the room. There's clothing, too, small and in dark colors—belonging to a child.

A boy.

Belle can't keep but stare at the room, trying to determine whether she's looking at the childhood den of her elusive host himself, or whether it belonged to a young relative of his—perhaps even his son.

"His name is Neal."

Although the voice coming from right behind her is wholly unexpected, the soft tone and volume of it make certain that she doesn't jump up in shock. Turning around, she finds the businessman—fully dressed in a tailored three-piece suit once more, even though it's the middle of the night—standing by the doorstep of his bedroom.

"I haven't seen him or heard from him in almost fifteen years."

He steps towards her, leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes on the room beyond for once, rather than on her.

"He is my son," Mr. Gold continues, his voice breaking.

Although he isn't speaking about his son in the past tense, her heart breaks for his sorrow. Despite the lack of artificial light in the hallway, he steps right past her into the room, having clearly walked the same distance very, very often.

Belle thinks that he has forgotten about her presence, but as he carefully sits down on the neatly-made bed, he pats the empty space next to him questioningly. This was  _not_  what she had in mind when she fantasized about sharing a bed with him, but getting to know him like this is unlike any other gift she could ask for.

"He was the only important part of my life, and I was too blinded by greed and pride to realize it. He has always been my entire world, I've always loved him, but… growing up wasn't easy for me. I never wanted Neal to experience any of that—the hunger, the insecurity… the humiliations. I saw the profits of my company as the only way I could ensure his comfort, his  _happiness_ , but…"

He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders sagging deeper than they've ever done in her presence before. She places her own hand lightly on his back, beginning to caress it with a gesture that will hopefully soothe him as she shifts a little closer to him.

"But the more loopholes I exploited to increase our net value, the more people I alienated— _hurt—_ to give my boy as comfortable a life as I could, the less I was actually there for him… Neal hated me for it. He couldn't stand it… he couldn't stand  _me_ , what I had become to protect him in the only way I knew. He tried to tell me that I was choosing my power and my money over him, but… I wouldn't listen. Even when he gave me one last chance… I wouldn't listen."

Mr. Gold sits up, straightening himself, rubbing his eyes in a clear attempt to hold back the tears which are welling there. She keeps rubbing his back, providing all the comfort he accepts from her.

"He ran away from home when he was little more than a boy. I found him, only for him to flee from me again… and again. Eventually, despite all of my money and power and influence, I couldn't find him anymore. He refuses to talk to me. I haven't heard anything from him in all those years. No cards, no phone calls… nothing at all. I never stopped looking for him, and… the only hope I have is the knowledge that he couldn't keep running from me like this if something bad had happened to him."

His shoulders shake, his entire face seeming to wobble before he covers it with his hands again. He turns away from her, but he can't hide the sound of his barely held back sobs. With a start, she realizes that she might very well be the only person in his life he's remotely close with—and he still isn't at all comfortable with sharing this with her.

Then again, there is, of course, a large difference between telling such things to her alone and the whole of the nation. He might not be aware that none of this is being filmed. This might look like it's going to be the most emotional moment ever on her show—but there's no way she'll ever let such a thing appear on television. Even one day ago, that would have chagrined her to say the least, but now she wouldn't have it any other way.

"It's just us, Mr. Gold," she whispers, embracing him tentatively from behind, wrapping her arms around him protectively. "I left the camera in my room."

He abruptly yanks away from her, but before she can process that she just accidentally got close to him again, he has turned around and practically thrown himself in her arms. No longer seeming fully in control of his body, he slides down until his head is practically buried in her lap, as if he can find solace only there.

Having never seen anyone get nearly this desperate, especially not a person that is usually as composed and stoic as Mr. Gold, she feels tears welling in her own eyes as he completely breaks down in her embrace. She bends over him, quite literally shielding his upper body with his own, as if that could protect him against all of his loneliness and insecurities.

He's almost howling in anguish in her arms, only crying all the harder as she comforts him to the best of his abilities. She dreads to think just how awful he must have felt before, how much of his grief and misery must have been building up for so long, for them to be unleashed in such a way.

"I have no idea where Neal might be now, what he might look like, what he enjoys to do," he manages to bring out, his voice barely audible. "I don't know whether he's safe, whether he's  _happy…_  whether he ever wants to see me again, whether I'll even find him before either of us dies."

"I'm so very sorry," she whispers, barely managing to reconcile the heartless businessman he must once have been with the broken man who now seeks refuge in the embrace of a woman he barely knows, presumably because there's simply no one else in his life with whom he can share any of this.

"Only when he was long gone did I realize how right Neal had been about me," he continues, although he is barely able to speak, his voice hoarse and thick. "I knew that I had to change the way I handled my company, if I ever even wanted a  _chance_  of seeing him again—that I had to change  _myself_. I did the best I could, but…"

He sits up with clear difficulty, looking at her with wet, blood-shot eyes. Sensing his limbs shaking, she supports him with tender hands, tears dripping down her own cheeks as well.

"I'm a coward, Miss French," he whispers, without a hint of irony or exaggeration. "If I were… if I were a real man, I'd go out there, look for him myself rather than to pay people to do it for me. While all I do is lock myself up in the house where he grew up, hoping he'll come home one day."

Belle looks at him in shock as she hears him talk about himself like this, wondering how he can refer to himself in this manner, where all this talk of cowardice and 'real' masculinity is coming from.

"I think you are holding up remarkably well for someone who has lost a child this way. Besides, you said you tried changing, didn't you?" she asks, realizing that this might very well be the reason why there's not even a hint of his infamous company in the life he is showing her this weekend. "Who says that isn't enough?"

"Because I can't undo the things I have done, the things I had my company do," he cries out, sounding as if the memory alone had him all but choking with regret. "The accusations you presented to me during your first night here… they are all true! More than true, and you did not even mention or know all the horrible facts."

He shudders, as if even physically repulsed by what he once did.

"I did everything I could to make up for it. I like to think that I succeeded, and continued to do good things with my company even once I felt my debts were repaid in full. The only reason I haven't sold it at all is that I want to keep a close eye on it, so I know for certain that it won't be used for questionable activities ever again."

"So you're hoping that your son will see that you have changed, like he wanted from the beginning, and that he'll come back to you because of that."

"Exactly," he sighs, although he still sounds miserable. "But I don't even know… I have to  _tell_  myself that he's still alive, because there'd be nothing left for me otherwise. Nothing at all."

"I'm sure that isn't true," she replies, starting to see that his despair runs deeper than the absence of his son in his life; it's the absence of  _everything_ , the sheer lack of light and laughter and kindness that makes him so miserable, even beyond having to live without his child.

Mr. Gold doesn't seem to hear her, and if he did, she fears that he wouldn't believe her. But unlike her words, he appears to find some peace in her embrace. As he questioningly returns to his position in her lap, using it as a pillow of sorts to bury his face in as he stretches himself across the mattress, she settles herself against the wall behind the far end of the bed. He's still sniffling and trembling, and Belle holds him tightly as he finally lets go of the sorrow and fear he has been holding inside for far too long.


	17. Sunday, 11.15 am

This time, Belle knows exactly where she is when she wakes up, although the room and bed where she does so are none she has ever seen in the light of day. Despite the curiosity that makes her itch to see the room she discovered last night properly, she's yet more interested in the man she finds sleeping in her arms.

She smiles in affection and relief at the sight of Mr. Gold resting peacefully at her side, his face pressed against the crook between her throat and chest. For once, he's not nearly as tense as usual. From what he's told her, she knows it's quite a miracle in its own right that he's asleep at all, let alone that he must have been so for this long.

After all, they're lying on their sides, facing one another, their arms around each other. In this small bed, they have constantly been so close that there's no way he could have had another nightmare without her noticing.

She vaguely recalls that they took off their shoes before curling up together on the mattress, his suit jacket covering the two of them, as they were too exhausted to get underneath the actual blankets. His suit is crumpled, an intriguing contrast to his usual appearance. Belle could very easily get used to waking up like this.

Selfishly, she also can't help but linger on how bloody attractive he is. She can't see his face from their current position, but they must have fallen asleep with her hand still in his hair, or else she reached out for it again during the night. Now that he isn't so inconsolable any longer, she can appreciate just how soft and thick the strands are, how amazing and addictive it feels to play with them.

The blissful moment is abruptly interrupted, long before she can even slightly get used to seeing him so unusually peaceful. He jerks awake, gasping audibly as he does so, and immediately breaks away from her—almost further yet than the narrow bed allows him.

"Miss French," he rasps, looking at her with wild eyes.

"It's me, yes," she says, tentatively reaching her hand for him, in the hope of calming him down. "Are you all right?"

"I am, yes, thanks to you," he replies, quickly looking away from her. "I… I'll go back to my own room, I won't bother you any longer. I hope I didn't…"

"What?" she cries out, not understanding. "By all means, go back to your own bedroom if you prefer, but please don't leave on my account!"

"I… you don't mind me  _staying_? You don't mind being here, like this, with me?"

"Of course not!" she exclaims fiercely, wondering how it is still possible for him to show her so much of himself—both in the literal and the figurative sense—only to suddenly withdraw again, almost immediately afterwards.

He looks like he's going to object, as if he genuinely couldn't believe that she can tolerate sharing a bed with him, let alone  _like_  it very much indeed.

"Are you feeling better?" she asks when he finally lies down again, although he doesn't move back into her arms, much to her silent disappointment.

"I am, very much. I can't begin to thank you for what you did last night… for what you've been doing since the moment you arrived in this house."

She isn't entirely certain how the way she consoled him the previous night has anything to do with their interactions before that, but she's mostly pleased that he appreciates their conversations and embraces in the first place.

"Do you mind that we slept here?" she asks, recalling that they have fallen asleep on the bed of his lost son.

"I'm sure Neal wouldn't mind," he replies, with a wicked curve of his lips.

"And what about you, since you're the one actually living here?"

"This is probably the best night I've had since he left… perhaps even the best night of my life."

"I'm glad," she answers, trying to ignore her awareness of how impossibly beautiful he looks like this, soft smile, stubble and all—as well as the urge to lean in to him and press her lips against his.

"Miss French, do you think… I tried so hard to be a better man. But after so many years, decades I suppose, of… well, of  _not_  being a good man, I don't even know… do you think that I… that I'm not as beastly as I was accused of being any longer? That I'm not… that I'm not a  _monster_? Not anymore?"

"I can't speak for the man you once were, or pretend that I know you nearly as well as I'd like, but given what I've seen of you in the past few days, how I've gotten to know you… I think Neal will be proud of you if he ever finds out how you've worked to undo your old mistakes."

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if overcome by a deep sense of relief—but then he looks straight back at her, his gaze rather urgent once more.

"And what about… what about you, Miss French? What do _you_  think? Of me, I mean?"

He seems to anticipate her personal opinion of him so much, it's almost like he values it more than his own, and just as much as his own son's.

"I think you're the gentlest and most considerate man I've ever met," she replies, only realizing how very true those words are to her as she speaks them—how very much she likes him as a person, regardless of her physical attraction to him. "Doesn't it bother you, though, that your reputation is the complete opposite of what you're trying to be? Don't you think it might prevent Neal from finding his way back to you?"

They didn't properly finish their conversation about his son last night, and there are still so many things she wants to ask him, whether she can capture them on camera or not. It's a relief that he considers her question rather than immediately dismissing it, especially when he begins to answer it thoughtfully, still lying opposite her on his son's bed.

"It doesn't bother me at all what people think. Neal, however… yes, I do care about what he thinks of me, very much—and I am afraid that my reputation prevents him from coming home to me. But at the same time… It almost feels  _good_  to be feared. It's familiar, it's… safe. Also because… people don't dare cross me, believing I'll do everything I can to take away all they hold dear if they tried. If they knew about all this…"

He gestures at the house, hardly secured and, beyond its loneliness, more cozy than anything else.

"I've got nothing left to hide behind," he whispers, inching back towards her after all.

"Maybe you don't have to," she replies just as softly, reaching for him again.

He rather eagerly accepts her arm around his back and, after one more questioning look, settles back in her embrace, with a happy sigh that goes straight to her heart.

"Does it matter whether I have to or not? All I care about is whether Neal will find his way back to me. I always thought… I always thought that quietly using my company to support worthwhile causes would be enough. But now, especially when talking to you, I can't be certain of that any longer. I told myself that he would keep track of me, that he would truly  _look_ , if he still cared about me at all. But maybe… _probably…_ "

"But if you're worried about people seeing who you really are, what your life is really like, then why did you invite us…" She vaguely gestures in the direction of Ruby's and her own room to refer to the camera and the television show that will be broadcast to millions of people nationwide.

Realization hits her like it never has in her life before. One moment, it seems to her like nothing about his motivations and choices is making any sense, and a second later she sees the obvious—what has been staring her in the face since the moment she found this long-unused room. Just like that, she  _understands_ , from his intentions in asking her here to his contradicting behavior towards her, specifically.

"Maybe I wanted some company and invited the only person who was offering to provide it."

As quickly as it came to her, Belle's sense of triumph disappears again. There's nothing but shyness and genuineness in his eyes and voice, when he unknowingly just torpedoed her whole hypothesis on his invitation to her and his inconsistent attitude since the moment she walked into his life.

"Is that so strange?" he mutters, lowering his eyes after catching the expression on her face.

"No, not at… well, maybe? But I thought…"

"What did you think?" he asks, and despite her inner turmoil of thoughts, she's struck once more by how he values her opinions.

"You want to show your son that you have become the good man, the good  _father_  he needs you to be in order to come home to you. But your unchanged reputation possibly prevents him from finding out that you have changed for the better. What better way to achieve this than appearing on a popular television show that intimately displays the careers and lives of well-known people?"

He  _gapes_  in hopeful bewilderment at the prospect of using the show to find his son back, putting an end to the hypothesis that he was planning this all along and she's only a distraction to him.

"Miss French, how would that work?! How could Neal possibly want to come back to me because of a television program?"

Sensing that rather than meaning to be offensive about the appeal of her show, he's simply unaware of its potential power on viewers, she sits up on the bed to launch into an enthusiastic explanation.

"Well, I think we already filmed a pretty good summary of the life you live now: not a single business deal, let alone a potentially malicious one. In addition to that, it will probably be helpful if you tell us more about the way you turned your life around and changed your company. Although that will, of course, require you to actually answer my questions, or say more than one sentence of your own accord in front of the camera."

"I… I can do that," he says, looking at her as if she were conjuring up the image of his long-lost son for him to see.

It's in the exact moment that the sun begins to stream into the bedroom, filling it with light and brightness after all the sorrow of the previous night. It's a new dawn, both for the place itself and the father of the boy who once lived there.

"I think that actually talking about your son will give you the best chance of reaching him and improving his opinion of you. It would really help if you just directly told the audience—and hopefully, eventually, Neal himself—how much you miss him. You can also talk about what you wish you could change in the past, and what you would do and say now if you got the chance to meet Neal again."

"You would… you would let me do that on your show?"

"Of course!" she exclaims, his first hint of naivety about the world of television surprising her yet further than the fact that he invited Ruby and herself in the first place. "It's… well, in a way, it's the whole point. We keep the episodes as real as possible, but…"

"It's  _staged_?"

'"Well, as little of it is staged as we can manage, and I do my best to include spontaneous activities and interviews, but… yes. The show is staged, to a certain extent."

Saying that, she belatedly realizes that no matter how highly unusual and slow-paced this sleepover has been so far, it's also growing to be the most honest and realistic one by a long shot. This probably directly correlates with how natural it has felt to be here, in this house with him, almost from the very beginning.

"People usually don't get on the show if they think they'll be portrayed in any unpleasant way, and it's not like we would ever had had new offers if we had painted previous hosts in a negative light. Since we aim to censure episodes as little as possible, Ruby and I try to select hosts we can give a positive image of without being dishonest to either them or ourselves."

"But… you accepted  _me_ , you came  _here_ , before knowing about…" He gestures at his son's former bedroom before pointing at himself, his disbelief almost tangible.

"Maybe I trusted you even before coming here," she replies, yet happier than before that she trusted her instincts when insisting on asking him for an invitation, year after year.

Even as Belle is mentally preparing an actual interview with him, and about such a different topic and person than she could ever have expected no less, the same feeling that got her into this house is telling her that she may not have to leave it as soon as the sleepover is done after all.


	18. Sunday, 1.50 pm

"Do you guys want to be alone for a while?"

After meeting Mr. Gold's eyes, Belle nods in response to her friend's question, before the latter puts the camera away and leaves the two of them in the library. She heaves a deep sigh and collapses backwards against the couch after the interview she has just done with the businessman, the longest and most draining one of her career so far.

"How are you holding up?" she asks softly, one glance at his face telling her that he is in worse shape than her—which isn't strange, considering that it's  _his_ life they have been discussing on camera for the greater part of the afternoon.

"Exhausted," he replies, his voice hoarse in a way that goes far beyond his sleepless nights and the hours of conversation they just had.

"Why don't you sit down here?" she asks, pointing at the empty space on the couch next to her.

"How are you feeling?" he inquires as he makes his way towards her from the armchair by the fire where she'd placed him for the interview.

"I'm tired as well. This was by far the most difficult interview I've ever done, but also the most interesting one. So I'm also grateful that you wanted to talk with me the way you did, be so open in your exchange with me."

"It's me who is grateful," he says as he heavily settles next to her. "I never imagined myself telling anyone about this, let alone…"

She nods in understanding as he vaguely gestures towards where Ruby sat, filming every second of him recounting his story—his absent mother and alcoholic father in his early years in rural Scotland, the aunts who, despite their poverty, raised him to the best of their abilities, the moment he ruined his own ankle in order to get to see his newborn son, his loveless marriage to a cruel wife and, of course, the ever-continuing absence of his child.

Belle feels like, thanks to this interview and the rest of their sleepover, she's learned more about him than she's ever gotten to know another person, even in her private life. And yet, she senses there's so much more to find out about him, so much that he hasn't told her yet… and probably never will, given how difficult it clearly was for him to share most of what he told her this afternoon already.

"You really helped me through this," he says quietly, such appreciation in his gaze that it almost brings tears to her eyes all over again. "Talking like this… I never expected I'd be able to. You are to thank for that. It means the world to me that you let me start over when it got too much, and that you were so patient, understanding and supportive throughout it all."

"It was the least I could do," she replies, still bewildered by the way even the smallest act of kindness sometimes appears to bewilder him. "Besides, I was crying right along with you a few times, so I hardly carried out my role to perfection."

"You  _are_ perfection," he exclaims with conviction.

"I… I wholly disagree with that statement," she replies, right as he looks at her in horror, as if he wished he hadn't said what he just did. "But I must say… I really appreciate the sentiment."

"I'm glad," he says, lowering his gaze, "and for the record, it was a relief that I wasn't the only one who lost control over my emotions. After all these years, it… it feels so soothing that there's someone else who cares… and if someone else is crying, especially someone like  _you…_  well, maybe I'm not a weak coward for doing the same."

"You're not… oh, you poor thing," she murmurs, scooting closer to him before she can think better of it.

Rather than rejecting her approach, he lets her wrap her arm around him, going as far as to rest his head against her own as she caresses his shoulder with her fingertips.

"You just helped me so much," he repeats, his voice thickening once more. "I'm not actually expecting this to bring my son back to me, but just talking about it all with you… I can't begin to wonder how I might thank you for all of this."

"You don't have to… I don't  _want_  you to," she replies, not shocked, but rather upset regardless that he is acting as if this was some sort of favor and she required a price for her work. "Besides, even beyond this sleepover, I'd be very happy to keep talking with you."

"You  _would_?" he asks, as if he couldn't imagine that.

"Of course," she replies, trying not to be hurt by his surprise—as if she hadn't expressed way more interest in him than she actually should have in the past few days.

"I very much enjoy talking to you as well."

His words would have pleased her a lot more if his tone had contained some actual enthusiasm or joy.

"How about we get back in touch after the episode has aired, and you let me know if things worked out between you and Neal?"

She probably shouldn't push this, especially not while he's in such a state, but he  _did_ imply that he wants to thank her for the interview, and she  _does_  very much want to keep communicating with him after this sleepover.

"I'd really like that, yes. Since it will all be your doing if I get to meet with my son again, that's the very least I can do."

"I'd like to stay in touch with you after the episode, whether or not you are reunited with your son."

"Yes, I feel the same way. Your kindness would be yet more welcome to me if I continued to be alone," he admits—at least without sounding as if he considered any contact between them after this sleepover as some sort of payment anymore, to her relief.

Briefly considering both of their lives after tomorrow, when this weekend comes to its end and they both return to their own lives, Belle takes a moment to simply appreciate being here. Almost as much as talking and enjoying some activities with the former businessman, she delights in spending time in his quiet and well-decorated home, and especially this extensive library.

"Why don't you try and get a bit more comfortable?" she suggests as she glances at him from the corner of her eye, noting that he is still clutching his soaked pocket square and looking somewhat disheveled.

"How do you think I might do that?" he asks, genuinely appearing to have no clue about the answer.

"How about…"

It should be easy enough, reaching out to loosen his tie—and possibly get rid of it altogether, while she's at it—but her hands falter halfway between them.

"Yes?" he prompts her in an almost hopeful tone, goading her into reaching for the garment after all.

What started as a functional action, intended to help him relax at least a little, turns into something else entirely when he swallows audibly at her reaching for him, his gaze heavy on her as he watches her every move.

She has spent quite a lot of time considering how gorgeous he looks in his suit—and without it. Now that she's about to actually shed one of his many, many layers, it feels like a progress far beyond the removal of something as innocent as a tie. Especially when his breath quickens and he nods at her in encouragement.

It's utterly unthinkable that the initially practically untouchable Mr. Gold is now, for all intents and purposes, almost urging her to undress him—even if this involves only a single piece of clothing. The action reveals an inch or so of his chest, the sight of it yet more tempting than when she glimpsed it from a bewildered distance, stumbling upon his towel-clad form in the hallway near her bedroom.

It might be tempting to consider this as both a huge step and a prelude to something more… satisfying, but the trepidation with which he glances at her reminds Belle to continue taking things slow. He smiles a little tentatively at her when she beams at him in appreciation rather than reacting to him with the disapproval he seems to expect—and at that moment, she wouldn't change this strange dance with this equally unusual man for anything.

"You were having a nightmare about your son, weren't you?" she asks, belatedly realizing that at least another one of her questions regarding him has been answered. "When I found you in the library, during my first night here."

"I… I often have nightmares about Neal, yes," he confesses, looking away from her.

His reaction implies to her that there's someone else he regularly has nightmares about, someone he deeply cares about and is afraid of losing. It makes little sense to her, and she'd love to know about this person, especially since he hasn't once referred to them—not even during their long conversation this afternoon. But now that he seems to be in another unforthcoming mood, she knows better than to try her luck.

"Neal would have loved being here with you," he says, giving her a pleasant surprise by telling her more about his son of his own accord. "Playing games, roasting marshmallows in the hearth, sliding down the stairs on a mattress… he probably would have jumped right alongside you in that lake."

"You were doing the things your son loved with me!" she concludes, the rather strange combination of activities they indulged in suddenly making a lot more sense.

"I enjoy all of those things—well, except where the lake was concerned, of course—in their own right, when I have someone to share them with."

"Even the mattress-sliding?" she asks, delighted to discover this other new side of him.

" _Especially_  the mattress-sliding," he responds, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

It's just  _unfair_  how gorgeous he is, and it's utterly beyond her how he can apparently think so poorly of himself. He may choose to all but lock himself up in this house, and not have explicitly confirmed just how lonely he is, but everything about him gives her the distinct impression that he's near-desperate to share his life with both his son and a significant other.

"You might enjoy the water of the lake more in summertime," she finds herself saying, "we could go skinny-dipping."

He flushes scarlet and starts coughing at the mere notion, resulting in her rubbing her hand soothingly over his back rather than starting the flirtatious conversation she was hoping for. All in all, another ruined attempt to seduce him.

"Those pictures were a wonderful idea," he comments, gesturing at the old images of his son that she suggested they bring from his old bedroom to the library for the interview. "I think I'll keep them here from now on."

"That would be lovely," she approves, glad that he's at least making progress in this area.

"For years, it was painful to even look at them. But now… I'm going to have all pictures I have of him printed, so I can put them up all over the house."

She smiles in affection at the prospect of this tribute to the son who hopefully won't be lost to him forever. He offers her a photo, one that she hasn't seen before. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the pretty woman on it, her curls long and dark, her gaze hard.

But no matter how curious she is about the woman who must be his mother—Mr. Gold's ex-wife and former  _lover—_ her attention is almost immediately on the young boy who stands next to her. Despite his age and that of the image, his eyes are as deep and warm as his father's.

"You won't be alone much longer," she finds herself stating with sudden conviction, grasping one of his hands in both of her own, not ever wanting to let go again.


	19. Sunday, 2.25 pm

"We should probably eat something."

Belle blinks as she looks back at Mr. Gold, her daydream of a life with him in this very house interrupted. At least he's still holding her hand, although he has been equally quiet for a considerable time. She'd almost think he had  _forgotten_  about the hardly casual touch that led her thoughts to the fantasy of domestic bliss with him.

"Yes," she agrees, a glance at the clock informing her that it's past lunchtime already, even though she's hardly hungry after the draining interview they just had.

"I don't have much of an appetite, but I'll get something for you and Miss Lucas. Do you have any preferences?"

Glancing at her friend, she finds Ruby hastily putting her phone away and readying the camera again. She and Mr. Gold must have been sitting motionlessly together, lost in thought, for longer than she believed.

"I'm good, thanks, I already got some snacks from the kitchen right after the interview," Ruby says, glancing meaningfully at Belle.

She appreciates her friend's attempt to push their host and herself into sharing a more personal and possibly more intimate lunch. But after this interview in which he hinted at the extent of his loneliness and misery, her own appetite is gone as well for the time being.

"You should eat something, Miss French. It's been quite a while since you had breakfast. I could make you a sandwich?"

"No thank you, although I greatly appreciate the offer. Shouldn't you eat something yourself? That interview must have been a lot more demanding for you than it was for me."

"I… I appreciate your concern, but I'm not hungry at all."

"Here we are, both of us not having an appetite and not wanting to have lunch, only to try and convince the other to do so."

"It sounds a bit silly, when you point it out like that," he remarks, offering her a small smile.

"I don't think it's silly at all. I quite like that we're so concerned about each other. Although that still doesn't make me hungry."

"Indeed."

"Maybe we could… isn't there something we can prepare that Neal used to love? Like the marshmallows, but that would take a bit longer to make? That way we can enjoy a fun activity again, and we might feel hungrier after all once the work is done."

"Neal enjoyed baking cookies with me," he replies thoughtfully. "I'm sure I can find some ingredients, if you'd like to bake our lunch?"

"That would be lovely!" she exclaims, delighted both by the prospect and the soft, hopeful expression on his face. "Although I should tell you that my baking skills don't exceed my culinary skills."

"No problem at all. You've been doing wonderful so far, and I bet you'll only get better."

"I have, haven't I?" she muses, realizing that she's learned more about cooking as they prepared their dinners together than she had in her entire life until now. "And it is  _fun_!"

"It is?" he says, voicing a question rather than a confirmation, as if unable to believe right away that she can enjoy doing something with him so much—especially something that could be considered as a chore.

"It is," she repeats firmly, placing her hands on his shoulders for emphasis.

"I'm glad," he murmurs in that beautifully gentle way of his.

"Teach me how to bake?" she asks, his smile the perfect answer.

They head to the kitchen and she watches him as he scourges the cupboards for available ingredients and a recipe book, one that looks as old as Neal.

"What about chocolate chip cookies?" he asks, eyeing his plunder.

"Perfect!" she exclaims, already all but drooling at the prospect of making and especially  _eating_ them with him.

That's how they soon end up measuring ingredients and mixing them together. Belle is paying careful attention, increasingly certain that she will try this recipe on her own once this sleepover has ended. Not because she has much faith in the end result when she doesn't have him to guide her, but because it will hopefully be a way to remember this afternoon more vividly—remember being with him in his house, as if both of them belonged there.

That plan is out of the window, however, when he comes to stand closer to her, pointing something out, offering to help her improve the dough. She can't even tell what he is saying exactly, not when he's so wonderful and so  _close_.

The next thing she knows, he is right behind her, placing his cane against the edge of the table. Reaching around her, he takes her hands in his own to guide them.

He may have gradually come to accept her touches, but in the few days they have spent together, he has rarely reached out for her of his own accord, let alone like  _this_. But there he is, standing at her back, his arms around her as he basically embraces her from behind.

"It goes better when you mix the dough like this," he says, his words still lost on her as he shows her the motions—so caught up in his determination to teach her what she asked for that he doesn't even seem to notice their nearness.

Belle really, really wants to change that, but knows only too well how easily spooked he is—skittish almost, where she is concerned.

So she waits for the moment when he'll be done showing her how to mix the dough, which comes rather quickly. As he moves to withdraw from her, she takes his hands in her own instead, wordlessly letting him know that she'd like him to stay just the way he is. When he doesn't retreat after all, she encourages him to wrap his arms around her from behind instead.

Mr. Gold remains entirely still, not even appearing to breathe, for quite a while. Just when she's starting to think that she has pushed too far again, he does envelop her in his embrace. Her eyes flutter closed in enjoyment when he pulls her lightly backwards, until her back is flush against his chest.

After another few breathless instants, she starts lightly caressing his lower arms where they rest on her belly in an unspoken attempt to soothe him, let him know how much she likes this. She smiles broadly when he buries his head in her hair.

"Miss French…" he whispers, his voice full of wonder and delight.

She can hear him inhale deeply, feel him rub his nose a little against her curls, both of them letting out a soft noise of appreciation as he does so. This is yet better than dancing together in the dimly-lit library, as they no longer need an excuse to touch each other like this.

It's only a small step, of course, and she still has no idea how they might go from this to…  _more_. But even being in his arms like this feels incredible, thrilling and utterly safe all at once, and she's looking forward to whatever may happen next, rather than feeling frustrated by how long this way forward may take.

Yet just as Belle is thinking about moving forwards in the first place, he abruptly steps away from her, suddenly creating a lot more space between them. Overcoming her disappointment as best she can, she turns around to face him, finding that he refuses to meet her gaze.

He's all tense again, much to her concern. She wishes she knew what's causing him to act so differently from one moment to the next, what  _she_  might unknowingly do to evoke those strange changes in his behavior.

"We can put the dough on the tray now," he says, his voice thick as he pretends that nothing out of the ordinary has happened, stubbornly keeping his eyes away from her.

How she  _hates_  this. Not that he isn't as consistently interested in her as she is in him, although that clearly stings as well. What upsets her is the almost panic-like reaction that comes over him whenever she thinks they might be making progress in their relationship, whatever the nature of that may be exactly. It's almost as if he were afraid of something, something so terrible he can't share it with her, even after baring his soul to her on the highly painful topic of his son.

She blindly follows the instructions he reads from the recipe book, no longer aware of what she's doing at all. The cookies are in the oven one moment later and she sighs as he focuses on its timer, his back towards her for a moment.

By now, Belle knows better than to expect things to become being easy and fine between them again. In order to achieve that, something has to happen to startle him back into a more open and affectionate mindset. But she doesn't feel like nearly freezing in a lake just now, and she'd hate for him to have another source of sorrow, like his lost son, to drive him into her arms in sheer desperation.

It's almost Sunday evening though; the remaining duration of the sleepover is considerably less than a day. There isn't much time left to find a way, any way at all to extend her stay with him—preferably one that would involve his reciprocating her feelings. The clock is ticking, both literally and figuratively, and…

Then something is literally flying straight past her, right at Mr. Gold. Frowning in confusion, she turns towards the source of this unexpected movement, just in time to see Ruby withdraw her hand from the still open pack of flour. Their host whirls around in confusion, his hair and the back of his no longer impeccable suit covered in the white substance.

When his eyes zero in on her while he reaches for the bag of sugar next to him, Belle realizes that Ruby has probably all but hidden behind her and is letting her take the blame for this. She is grateful to say the least when a positively sinful smile forms on his face and he flings a handful of sugar in her direction.

Before she knows it, they're throwing ingredients at each other, shaking with mirth. After their little adventure with the mattress, she already knew that Mr. Gold is more than capable of laughing out loud, but it's yet better to see him practically doubled over.

It's not the first time she's seen him cry either, but these are clearly tears of joy rather than despair and sadness. She hasn't laughed so much with anyone in a long time, not even Ruby, and it gets funnier yet when the tears start leaving tracks on their flour-covered faces.

They're advancing on each other, soon too far gone to actually continue throwing baking ingredients at one another. Well, that only goes for her, probably because she's far too busy noting the sugar sticking to the side of his face. It only makes her want to kiss him that much more.

"I think you'll find that there's no way you can win this," he says in a tone she shouldn't like nearly as much as she does. "It's been ages since Neal was a toddler and prone to making messes that were not unlike this, but I'm quite certain I haven't forgotten how to get the upper hand."

"Why don't you show me?" she eggs him on, breathless and eager, if for a whole different reason.

He's backing her up against the table with his intent gaze alone, and she goes so very willingly, all but begging for him to catch her, for both of them to stake their claim on each other. There must be something in her eyes or posture that prompts him to drop the sugar from his suddenly limp hands, but he keeps on approaching, limping now that he is without his cane.

Her chest is heaving by the time she finally can't move any further back, and he keeps on advancing on her. In her mind's eye, she is licking the sugar off his face, combing the flour out of his hair. Mr. Gold leans in to her, the fronts of their bodies almost touching. The smile falling from his mouth is replaced by something yet more delicious as he unmistakably glances at her lips, licking his own.

This beautiful, impossibly attractive man is going to  _kiss_  her after all, and…

"My apologies, Miss French," he brings out hoarsely, breaking away abruptly, his face only a few inches from hers. "We should… why don't you take a shower while I clean up here? The cookies shouldn't be ready for another half an hour or so. We can eat them when you get back."

Before she can protest—if only to insist that both of them clean up—his back is towards her once more. Taking his cane in one hand and a rag in the other, he acts like nothing unusual has happened, like he wasn't just about to kiss her. It's only another disappointment in her relationship with him, but the tremble in his hands gives her the hope that this awkward stalemate isn't the end of it.


	20. Sunday, 5.30 pm

"Can I ask you a personal question, Miss French?" he asks once they're back together, freshly showered and with a large plate of cookies to share between the three of them.

"Of course," she says, nodding meaningfully at Ruby.

Her friend nods back, understanding her without needing words. She was no longer filming anyhow, since there hasn't exactly been much going on since their host all but bared his soul with regards to his lost son and they subsequently started throwing cookie batter at each other.

If the tremor in his voice is any indication though, the kind of privacy he desires may involve not having a third person in the room, whether her attention is mostly on her phone or not.

"What is it you want to know?" she inquires as soon as Ruby has discreetly closed the door of the library behind her.

She's thrilled that he wants to ask her something "private" to begin with, but the ever-lingering tension in his expression immediately gives her the impression that this won't be the sort of question she's hoping for.

"Is everything… resolved with regards to Killian Jones?"

Belle freezes when he refers to the only disastrous sleepover she's had in her career, a moment which was, in fact, one of the most unpleasant ones in her entire life.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"No, it's all right. It's just… bad memories."

It's been nearly two years since pop star Killian Jones invited himself into her bed while she was filming an episode of the show on his yacht, but suddenly, it feels like it was only yesterday. He made explicitly clear that he was after a lot more, and didn't take no for an answer when she told him in no uncertain terms that his presence and advances were not welcome.

"I'm very sorry that this happened to you, Miss French."

He gives her hand the tiniest of squeezes, the encouragement very welcome. She smiles at him tentatively, wishing she had known someone like him in the aftermath of her time with Jones. The fact that even someone with as little contact with the outside world as Mr. Gold knows about this further reminds her of the way that episode went utterly out of control.

"That night itself wasn't the worst. I mean, it  _was_  terrifying that he was so out of his mind he thought it was acceptable to do that to me, let alone when it was being  _recorded_. Still…"

She closes her eyes, reliving these moments in her mind's eye.

"I think anyone would understand if you called it a terrifying experience," he says softly, stroking her back in a gentle and questioning manner.

All she can do is nod in response and lean in to him, grateful when he lightly embraces her. Never mind that he's so handsome she could stare at him for hours, or that his house is the most pleasant one she's ever visited.  _This_  is what makes her the most attracted to him—this quiet understanding and support, the seemingly never-ending source of unassuming kindness.

"I knew Ruby was  _right there_ , and that he was too drunk to actually do anything," she says, finding herself sniffing even as she tries to control herself, if only because she doesn't know what might happen if this dam bursts. "And it can't have taken more than a few seconds for her to pull him off me, and I had broken his nose in the meantime. In a way, I guess I hurt him more than he hurt me. But if we hadn't been so on our guard because of the unpleasant way he had behaved all evening, from the moment he started to drink—if he had been slightly more coordinated…"

"Come here?" he suggests, guiding her head to the juncture of his neck and shoulder once she has nodded her agreement.

The tears she expected don't come when he pulls her into his embrace, his movements never forceful or rough as she gratefully cuddles against him. As thrilling as it felt at previous points, she only finds his embrace utterly soothing now that she's so upset with the memories of a man who is the complete opposite of Mr. Gold.

"But all things considered, the aftermath was worse. I wanted to press charges, if only to prevent him from ever actually hurting someone, the way I'm certain he would have done with me if he had had the chance. But he was one of the most popular pop singers on the entire planet at the time, and it didn't even seem to matter that the whole thing was on record, that I had  _proof_."

How she wishes she had had someone like him in those days. Ruby was her rock back then, standing with her when almost no one else would. Her best friend was all fierceness and sharp edges, getting her through the increasingly frustrating and surreal meetings with all these people who were supposed to be on her side. The warmth and comfort the former businessman is introducing to her now would have been equally welcome.

"The studio was afraid to go after Killian. Even my own people tried to write his behavior off as a prank, as if it had only been some sort of harmless joke, so I wouldn't bring it to court. I still can't believe that they supported me eventually, that there turned out to be other women just like me, and that we  _won_."

Even more than the fact that Jones actually ended up in jail, however briefly, she still finds it difficult sometimes to process the fact that her own bosses did back her in the end. She vividly recalls being called into their office in such a manner that she was convinced they would inform her that there was no way she could press charges—perhaps even cancel her show—but instead, they shared the news that she had their full support after all.

"What about you personally?" he asks, still caressing her back in an almost demure manner, his touches feather-light and never straying. "Do you feel well? Do you feel safe?"

"I do," she replies, very grateful that she can genuinely say so.

"I'm very glad to hear that."

"I hardly think about it at all anymore. I hadn't since I got here; you are a very good distraction, Mr. Gold."

"Well, I've never heard  _that_ before, but it's good to know that being here… well, that it helps you like that. I'm only sorry I brought this up, considering that you wouldn't have had to recall that ordeal otherwise."

"There's nothing to be sorry for. I'm just very glad that you're being so wonderful," she says, snuggling into him a little more and wrapping her arms around his neck when he responds by slightly tightening his hold on her.

"It's really the least I can do."

"It's a lot more than many people have done."

"That's hardly a compliment in this case, I'm afraid."

"That's true, unfortunately. But I  _do_  very much appreciate your kindness and understanding, no matter how others may or may not have behaved."

"I… I just want you to be happy, Miss French."

She may have thought that the urge to cry was gone for now, but it suddenly returns with a vengeance—if for a whole different reason—at those words. In many ways, it's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to her.

"Thank you. I hope the same goes for you," she says, gesturing at a photograph of Neal.

"I'm the only one to blame for my situation. The same can't be said for you. I… if you ever need… I know Jones has been released from prison. If he ever bothers you again, if there's ever  _anyone_ who makes you afraid or uncomfortable… I can make it go away. Just say the words, and I'll make it go away."

From what he has openly admitted about his earlier days as a ruthless businessman, she has the feeling that his definition of "making it go away" is very definitive indeed. It should shock her, this implication that he might hurt others in order to keep her safe. It should horrify her to hear Mr. Gold say something like this, now that she has gotten to know him the way she has, now that she trusts him so utterly.

But she can't prevent a pleasant shudder from going through her at these words, can't help but feel better indeed at the prospect that someone is willing to support her like this, no questions asked. Especially as she has directly experienced what it's like to have almost no assistance at all, to be blamed and questioned for what someone else did to her.

"If you ever need any help, please… don't hesitate to get in touch with me. I will take care of it. Not because… not because of what you did for me, helping me reach out to Neal on your show. I want to help you, because I like to think that we…"

All thoughts of Jones and Mr. Gold's willingness to keep her safe are momentarily forgotten when she realizes that he's about to put words on their relationship for the very first time. She can't imagine that he has felt their attraction as much as she did, and is as eager as she to express it, but after what he just offered to her, maybe he actually…

"To me, it feels like we are… friends."

The way he pronounces that last word, as if it were utterly foreign and more valuable than the billions he made once upon a time, almost immediately takes away her disappointment at this characterization of the bond between them.

It reminds her that no matter what, they've found something wonderful together. She  _does_ want to be his friend, and it's a relief that he at least wishes for that as well, even though she would delight in being his lover—his  _girlfriend—_ just as much.

"It feels the same way to me," she says, slightly withdrawing from his embrace so she can look at his face while saying those words—right in time to see his disbelieving expression slowly turn into sheer delight as she grins at him encouragingly.

"That makes me happy," he breathes, smiling back at her.

"Happy?" she echoes, pleasantly surprised to hear him use that word to describe himself.

"As happy as I suppose I can be without Neal, but… yes. Happy. What about you, Miss French?"

"That makes me… well,  _happy_. So yes, I'm happy as well."

Belle almost wishes she could leave the conversation at that, appreciate their friendship as much as she wants to, without wondering about the implications of being friends with him  _and_  kissing him and sleeping with him.

"Mr. Gold, in the interview, you implied that your marriage was not… successful, and that you've been alone in almost the entire time since. Additionally, when we talked during my first night here, you said that you... that you don't 'want' anyone. Do you mean that you don't ever want be in a relationship again? Wouldn't you  _like_  to be with someone again?"

"I… I don't know," he replies, after her question, for some reason, has caused him a sharp intake of breath.

"Why don't you know that?" she asks, her heart already sinking although of course, it's hardly a surprise that he isn't declaring his undying love for her at this point.

"On the one side, it would be… nice to have someone. But on the other hand…"

He trails off again, no matter how much her expression probably betrays her eagerness for him to continue talking. Then again, there's no way he could possibly see that, for he's staring at his feet again.

"On the other hand, what?" she softly urges him on.

"It's only bound to end in disappointment, isn't it?"

"What… how… what do you mean?"

"Well, it's only  _me_ , isn't it?" he remarks, vaguely gesturing at himself, with as much depreciation as his tone and words express.

"What are you  _talking about_?"

"Do you really not know?" he asks, looking up at her with such a pained expression that she finds herself taken aback.

"Know what?" she tries again, not understanding his reaction at all.

"You were right there when I talked about my shortcomings as a father and a husband. Surely you understand, you  _know_ , why I should never be in a relationship again. It's bound to end up with only more heartbreak and… well, and humiliation, probably."

"I… I was right there, indeed. But I heard you say something else entirely. Your marriage didn't work out, but that doesn't mean… especially someone as wonderful as you, surely…"

"It's getting late," he says abruptly, interrupting her in a way he never has before, his eyes on the door rather than the clock. "I should get started on the preparations for dinner."

Just like that, he stands up and heads out of the library, something that seems close to despair in his steps. Belle collapses backwards onto the couch, groaning in frustration. Now that she has spent three days with him, she has gotten to know Mr. Gold much better than she thought she would; she has fallen much harder and faster, too.

At the same time, it feels like she has only barely scratched the surface of his many layers. Although it's becoming clearer and clearer that he isn't interested in being in a relationship again, or at least not with  _her_ , she only keeps desiring him more.


	21. Sunday, 8.10 pm

The dinner they prepared and shared was yet more delicious than the ones before, but Belle couldn't bring herself to enjoy it. It is their last one after all, the beginning of their last evening together. Being with him, being in this house, gives her a sense of belonging she hadn't known in a long, long time, perhaps not ever. But this is hardly her home, no matter how much she may wish otherwise… no matter how much it  _feels_  otherwise.

She is a guest, Ruby is filming everything for their television show, and Mr. Gold is their host. It's as simple as that, no matter how complicated their relationship seems to be, filled with unspoken sentiments and half-gestures.

They're back in the library, still as splendid as when she saw it for the first time. He's at his spinning wheel and she's back on her favorite couch, a book in her hand. Reading is the last thing on her mind, however, even with the fire blazing in the hearth and a comfortable plaid to cover her legs.

If nothing else, she wants to find out what's preventing him from acting on the affection and desire he sometimes appears to feel for her, at least to some extent. She wants to get to know him,  _all_ of him.

Although Mr. Gold usually relaxes, if only a little, whenever he's behind his spinning wheel, she takes it as a bad sign that his back is ramrod straight now, his shoulders taut. But time is running out, and even if it weren't, she can't just  _not_  approach him, his silhouette against the light from the fire in the hearth breathtaking in its own right.

Belle walks slowly closer to him, making certain he's aware of her movements. He smiles a little when she comes nearer, almost shyly, cementing her belief in her plan.

"Hey," he greets her softly, almost dreamily.

"Hey," she echoes, like she tends to do when he looks at her like this, like she is his moon and stars.

"Was the book not to your liking?"

"It was. But…"  _I see someone here who is yet more to my liking._ "You look tense."

"I… I am, yes," he says, his hands faltering and falling limply to his sides.

"Is there something else you'd like to talk about?" she suggests, sensing that complete honesty and slow steps are the best approach.

"There isn't," he responds after several seconds of silence.

Even a day ago, that would have been the end of the conversation. But he shifts towards her a little, a motion so subtle that he may not even have noticed it himself—she very much does, though. She doesn't know if she would have realized it yesterday, whether it would also have inspired the question it does now.

"Is there something else you'd like me to  _do_?"

"I… my shoulders are quite painful."

It isn't a request as such, but she knows exactly what he means. Grateful that he felt secure enough to let her know this, Belle lightly rests her hands on his shoulders.

"Do you think this will help? I'm hardly an expert, but I'd love to try any suggestions you might have."

"I've got no idea what it might feel like, but I'm certain anything you might do will be wonderful."

"Let's find out together then," she says, not surprised, but still saddened that no one has done this for him before.

Still, more than anything, she's thrilled that he's asking her to try this in the first place. However, the feeling turns into excitement of a rather different kind when her first experimental squeeze of the taut muscles in his shoulders has him groaning out loud.

It's exhilarating beyond words to hear the usually so utterly stoic and controlled former businessman react to her like this. Although she doesn't need another reminder of how attracted she is to him, she can't help but bask in the raw sound as she evokes it over and over again.

"Feels good?" she asks, so eager for his enthusiasm that she needs to hear him actually put it into words.

"Better than anything," he brings out, those words leaving a smile on her lips.

She likes to think that she could make him feel far better yet, but she knows only too well that any options that include a lot less clothing and a lot more touching aren't exactly on the table.

"I'm glad," she replies, noting how he's starting to fully lean his upper body against her as he becomes as relaxed as she's seen him in all their time together so far, except when he was actually sleeping.

"Please, could you keep going for a little while?" he requests softly.

"As long as you like," she responds, delighted that he is as happy as she is to keep enjoying this, and yet more so that he is actually voicing it.

"Careful what you offer, Miss French," he says, his voice raspy and velvety in that way that goes straight to parts of herself she doesn't want to think of when standing so close to someone who probably wants nothing to do with them. "You might end up never leaving that way."

"Who says I'd have a problem with that?" she asks, digging her fingers a bit more deeply into his shoulders, as if in a challenge.

It's hardly surprising that he doesn't react to her none too subtle offer, but she feels disappointed regardless.

"Earlier today, you asked me a personal question," she goes on, unwilling to give up and trying for a different approach instead. "Can I ask you one as well, since you didn't answer the previous question of this kind I had for you?"

"You can, although I won't guarantee that I'll answer it."

"Fair enough," she says, choosing her next words carefully. "During the interview, you mentioned your ex-wife."

"I did," he acknowledges, the tension immediately returning to his shoulders.

"Has there been… have you been alone ever since she left?" she asks, continuing her thorough massage as if she could banish those obviously bad memories from his mind by sheer force of will.

"There was… a brief affair."

"While you were wed?" she asks, not blaming him since his marriage was already characterized by unfaithfulness and misery, but not having expected him to be that type.

"No, a few years later," he corrects, sounding like he doesn't know whether to be amused or shocked by her question. "She was the one who was married—or rather, she later wed someone she met while she was with me."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, not having expected his first subsequent relationship to have been so disastrous as well.

"It was for the best," he sighs, his hands still not reaching for the spinning wheel again. "We brought out the worst in each other. Leaving me for someone else was the best thing she could have done at the time, although it took me years to realize it, and she didn't exactly have my best interests in mind either."

"And since then, you've loved no one and no one loved you?" she asks, her heart breaking at the discovery that both of the women he has ever been with have left him.

"What's there to love?" he asks very, very softly, gesturing at himself.

"Everything," she dares to whisper back, letting go of his shoulders in order to wrap her arms around his chest, pulling him more firmly backwards into the front of her body. "Don't you ever wish… I know you've said during my first evening here that you didn't want to be in a relationship with anyone, but I'm wondering… hypothetically, if you  _did_  desire it… what would such a relationship be like? What would it be for you, ideally?"

"That's more than one personal question, Miss French," he breathes, turning his head a little and appearing to nuzzle her blouse, as if he were glad rather than upset that she couldn't contain herself.

Before Belle can remind him that he's obviously under no obligation to tell her anything, and she won't ever touch this subject with him again if it makes him uncomfortable, he continues speaking of his own accord.

"In that theoretical ideal relationship… well, as you know, I'm not exactly an outgoing sort of person. It would entirely take place here, in this house and its grounds. There would be lots of… well, lots of the things we did this weekend. But then there'd also be a  _lot_  of snuggling and cuddling, like… well, not unlike when we lay down on the mattress by the hearth, but then we'd kiss and touch and…"

"Make love?" she breathes, barely able to believe that he's giving her such a detailed answer, almost eagerly so—that he even uses the word "we", going as far as to describe many of the things that they, in reality, have already done together.

" _Yes_ ," he all but moans, sounding pained. "In this hypothetical, impossible situation, I'd manage not to disappoint and disgust my partner for once, and… yes, we'd make love."

 _How could you possibly disappoint and disgust anyone?!_ is her first thought, but after what he has implied about the only two women he seems to have been with in the course of his life, she's starting to fear that there's a very good reason why he's so adverse to relationships—even the one he's describing with a striking sense of longing and detail right now.

"With the right partner, I think that this ideal situation could be a lot more achievable than you might think," she dares to say, realizing that she  _wants_  this for him, even if he doesn't choose her.

He goes very, very still in her arms, and she's convinced that she has told him too much, crossed a boundary of sorts after all. But he remains right where he is, sighing, pressing his face a bit more firmly into her belly.

"One can dream" is all he says, his voice barely audible, but still making her feel like throughout the course of this weekend, he has never been more honest with her than he is right now.

 _Then let's dream_ , she thinks—but she doesn't voice it, this moment between them too fragile.

"Miss French, can I ask you another personal question as well?"

"Of course you can," she says, eager to tell him whatever he would like to know about herself.

"Are  _you_  currently in a relationship, or… seeing anyone?"

"I'm not," she quickly replies, only now realizing that he may have been holding back with her because he thought she was with someone else.

"But… what about Will Scarlet?"

"How do you even know about that?" she asks, chuckling at the surreal experience of encountering this wholly untrue rumor here, of all places.

But rather than laughing along with her, the former businessman looks up at her with wide eyes, shock and even discomfort written all over his usually unreadable face.

"The rumors about Will and me aren't true at all," she clarifies.

"But it isn't strange to think that the two of you… he's a successful athlete, he is young, good-looking I suppose… the two of you seemed to get on  _very_  well during your sleepover with him."

"I…"

Belle falters, unable to tell what is more bizarre: that the isolated, seemingly uncaring Mr. Gold is aware of rumors about her private life, that he seems to  _want_  her to be with Will, or that he knows, at least to some extent, about that episode she filmed last year.

"He's like a brother to me," she says, carefully gauging his expression. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"I… I see. Can I… can I ask another personal question?"

"Definitely."

"Do you  _want_  to be in a relationship?"

"You're asking me whether I'd like that right now?" she inquires for clarification, feeling herself getting unwillingly hopeful all over again, now that he is basically returning her question to her.

"Yes."

"Then yes, I want to be in a relationship right now," she murmurs, reaching for his face to make it yet clearer that she's referring to him, that  _he_  is the one she would like to be with.

"I see," he brings out hoarsely, freezing again.

Although his body appears to be entirely still, Belle can tell that some sort of turmoil is going on within him. He is breathing hard and as she caresses his throat, she can feel his pulse racing beneath her fingertips.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss French, I'd like to retire for the night," he says, standing up more abruptly than she thought anyone could, let alone someone who has to rely on a cane.

The same goes for the speed with which he all but runs out of the library once more. By the time her mouth has found the words to bid him a good night, he is long gone.

Just like that, her last full day with Mr. Gold has come to an end, and her attempt to clear up their misunderstandings once and for all has only led to more confusion and frustration.


	22. Monday, 2.40 am

Belle isn't quite certain how long she spent hesitating, tossing and turning in her guest bedroom in his house while she considered the many reasons why she shouldn't go to Mr. Gold's room right now. It didn't help that she could vividly remember his touches on the few occasions when he did reach out to her, leaving her craving for more.

His aloof behavior when saying good night to her this evening reminding her that she doesn't have much to lose, she gets up from her bed after all. Banning any further second-guessing, she sets in motion the plan that has been swirling in the back of her mind since she found the negligee and condoms Ruby packed for her in her suitcase.

It's chilly in the room, just like in the rest of the house except for the library, where he tends to keep a fire burning throughout the day. If she has anything to say about it, she'll spread heat to his bedroom as well, at the very least.

Still, for now she is shivering with cold and nerves alike as she strips off her regular pajamas and underwear, exchanging them for a flutter of barely-there fabric. She figures that the odds of the former businessman actually letting her enter his room aren't all that large, especially not while wearing something like  _this_.

But at least, she will have done just about anything she can think of to let him know that she's interested in him, while causing him as little as she can of the discomfort that seems to almost unavoidably accompany such efforts.

She purposefully leaves the camera right where it is, on the table. There are only two witnesses she wants for what she has in mind, and they'll be right in the room she's heading to. She does take her phone with her though, impulsively setting it to camera mode so she'll have at least some private memento of their time together in this house, of the person who enchants her like no one else ever has.

In her heart, she feels that her host won't make love to her, even if he somehow did long for any physical contact between the two of them as much as she did. Still, it seems outright irresponsible not to bring any condoms—while it would appear foolishly optimistic to take more than one.

That's how Belle ends up slipping out of the guest room with her recording phone in one hand and a single condom in the other. There's no point in being quiet as she heads towards the hallway connecting their rooms this time. If anything, she hopes to alert him of her approach, not wanting to spook him.

After she has passed the door to Ruby's bedroom, she can't help but try that of the room next to it again. It barely surprises her that it should still be firmly locked, not quite unlike the true depths of the man who owns this house.

But at least the door to Neal's old bedroom isn't closed anymore, and Belle hopes with all her heart that this symbolizes the way Mr. Gold is at least starting to embrace and acknowledge his history with his son.

The staircase to the ground floor is on her other side and she hesitates for a moment after all, wondering where she might find her host. Knowing, if only to some extent, about his nightmares and sleeping difficulties now, she wouldn't be surprised to stumble on him in the library, even at this hour.

But no sound or light reaches her from downstairs, and she decides to try his bedroom next. To her surprise, she finds the door ajar, taking that as a good sign. She quivers as she steps towards it, catching the sight of a shape in the bed.

"Mr. Gold?" she inquires softly, lightly knocking on the door to announce her intention to enter his room.

"Miss French," he acknowledges her immediately, with tension in his voice.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her own words heavy with nervousness as well.

"Yes," he simply replies, the positive and straightforward answer encouraging her.

She steps in, closing the door behind her. Moonlight is falling into the room, washing it with bright, white light. It makes the atmosphere yet more surreal than it already felt to her.

"I was wondering whether you would come."

Finding that she can see quite clearly, despite the late hour and the lack of artificial light, she takes a moment to watch her surroundings. She went through this room before, to get to his bathroom after her jump into the lake, but only now does she get to see it properly.

Of course, her attention is hardly on the rather boldly-colored walls, the plush carpet or even the antique-looking bed. She only has eyes for Mr. Gold, who is indeed lying on the latter. He's propped up on two pillows against the headboard, and appears to have been staring at the wall in front of him when she arrived.

The covers are pulled up to his chest, and he is wearing the most conservative pajamas she's ever seen. And yet, he's also the most tempting sight she's ever encountered. She discreetly points her phone at him so she'll have at least  _this_  to take home with her, even if this last night results in as little physical progress as the rest of the weekend so far.

"Miss French?" he asks, sounding rather concerned.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" she replies, belatedly realizing she was so lost in the mere fact of being here that she didn't properly take in his words to her.

"I said that I was wondering whether you would come," he repeats softly, not quite looking at her, as if he feared she'd disappear as soon as he laid eyes on her.

"I… well, clearly…" She pauses, recalling that she didn't discuss... visits like this with him before she and Ruby arrived to shoot the episode. "Were you  _expecting_ me?"

"I didn't know what to expect," he quietly admits.

"Are you happy that I'm here?" she tries instead, studying his still-averted gaze as best she can in the moonlight.

"I… I don't know."

"Why not? Surely you must feel  _something_ , having me in your bedroom like this."

"I feel a great many things," he immediately responds, which isn't helpful at all.

At last, he looks at her directly, parting his lips as if to finally provide her with some insight into his thoughts and feelings—only for his mouth to actually fall open, not closing for quite some time, when his gaze belatedly falls on her.

"You've never worn anything like that before," he brings out, his voice so deliciously hoarse that her brain only processes his actual words after a few seconds.

There he goes again, speaking as if he has any notion about the past seven seasons and almost one hundred and fifty episodes of her show—as if he was, in fact, aware of what she had and had not worn in each and every single one of them. This is the perfect—if not her very last—opportunity to ask him about that, but it's not as if she could think straight at all as he looks at her with wide, reverent eyes.

Glancing down herself to follow his gaze, she flushes when she notices, only at that point, that her nightwear looks positively transparent in the bright moonlight, making it very clear that she's wearing nothing whatsoever underneath. The peaks of her breasts, hardened by the cold and the circumstances, are clearly visible.

Merely by  _looking_  at her, he makes her feel more desired and cherished than anyone ever has before.

"You must be freezing," he almost stammers.

Of course that  _would be_  his conclusion when an almost entirely naked woman shows up in his bedroom. Still, she  _is_  rather chilly, and it's a very good sign to her that he should invite her closer to him, into his  _bed_ of all places, even though he doesn't exactly do so in the manner she may have hoped for.

Indeed, he just gestures at the empty half of his bed, never taking his eyes off her, only to go entirely still when it dawns on him what he just wordlessly prompted her to do. His eyes alone are moving—focusing on a point between her feet and the edge of the mattress.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

He has been apologizing a lot in the past weekend, especially for a man of his history and background, but rarely has his repentance been as unnecessary as right now.

"I'd be very happy to get warm in your bed," she reassures him, sensing that at this point, it's better not to tell him that she would actually love to get warm with  _him._

"If you don't  _mind_  doing that…"

"I don't mind at all. In fact, I'm looking forward to it."

"In that case… It would be no bother for me either."

That's how Belle finds herself heading towards him, gratefully slipping under the covers he pulls back for her. His bed is just as comfortable as the one that was meant for her during this sleepover, but she enjoys being here considerably more. Her body immediately begins to recover from the chilliness of the house, although there's still a quiver within her that only he can banish.

Mr. Gold doesn't seem to be breathing at all while she gets into his bed, nor to resume doing so once she has settled under the blankets. He hasn't moved, but she can tell he's watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Is that thing recording?" he asks, gesturing at the phone she forgot she was still holding.

"I… yes, it is. Does that bother you?"

"It doesn't, I suppose. Although it's beyond me why you would want to waste any resources on this," he replies matter-of-factly, gesturing at himself and the room they're in.

"I'm making a keepsake of this night with you. That's very valuable to me," she replies gently, still not understanding why he would be so harsh on himself.

"How can you say that when you don't even appear to be in it yourself?  _You_ are the one who…"

"We should be in it together, yes!" she exclaims, too excited to process his last sentence properly. "Why don't we make some pictures?"

"I… if you'd like to do that…"

"Let's make them right now," she beams at him—before recalling that this would require more physical nearness and that he, even now that she's in his bed, remains just about the least approachable person she's ever known.

"How about you come as close to my side as you're comfortable with?" he offers after a few seconds.

She happily accepts that possibility, nodding fervently while already scooting towards him under the covers.

"Tell me when I'm closer than  _you_ are comfortable with."

Rather than sounding relieved by that option, he snorts as if it were impossible for her to get closer to him than he'd like. Still, she isn't entirely certain that he won't get skittish around her after all—but for once, there's no sign of rejection or shock from him, not even when she questioningly rests her head against his shoulder.

Having forgotten about the condom until then, she places it on the now-deserted edge of her side of the bed, wanting to have both hands free as she focuses on creating a far better memento than she could have expected even a few minutes ago.

He willingly poses in the several ways she suggests, never moving more than to tilt his head or close his eyes—pretending to be sleeping at her side, much to her delight. His hands never even inch towards her, fueling her affection and frustration alike.

"Is there any chance I could have those pictures as well?" he asks after another few seconds of silence once she is done. "I don't have a phone like yours, or a computer, but I'd really like to…"

"I can have them printed, framed and shipped to you," she replies quickly, glancing at the empty wall he was staring at before her arrival. She will very happily give him something to actually be watching.

"If it's no trouble to you…" he says, delighting her with his eagerness to accept her offer.

"No trouble at all. It's the least I can do after the lovely sleepover you organized."

"It has been  _my_ pleasure to… well. I trust you'll know where to send the invoice."

"I know where to find you," she just answers, not planning at all to let him pay for her gift to him, but rather reassured by this more characteristic statement.

"I suppose you'll be getting back to your own room, now that you've finished this part of your show," he says next, an unmistakable hint of regret in his voice.

Belle has to hold back a groan of bewilderment at those words, almost afraid to imagine what must have happened in his life for him to react like this to a woman getting into his room in barely-there clothing in the middle of the night.

"I'd love to stay here, with you," she informs him, adding the last two words just in case he'd be thinking of leaving her on her own in his bed next.

"I… I'd like that as well," he stammers, much to her delight. "Are you warm enough? Would you like another pillow? Do you…"

"There are two things that would make me feel yet more comfortable," she says, pushing herself up on her arms a little so she can see the expression on his face.

"Name them," he answers, clearly not expecting the far from materialistic suggestions she has in mind.

Rather than telling him, she shifts closer to him as he remains lying on his back—and then closer, prompting him to lift up his arm. He groans softly when she none too lightly presses her chest against his side, but still doesn't make the slightest move to touch her in return. She sighs happily when he slowly lowers the raised limb, questioningly wrapping it around her.

"And the other thing I could do for you?"

"My feet are rather cold. Can I… well, can I use yours as a heater?"

"I don't see why not," he says, sounding confused again.

She gradually brushes her feet against his, both of them gasping when her bare skin touches his equally bare foot.

"Too cold?" she asks, not daring to assume that his reaction is also caused by the sheer delight of feeling at least one part of his body against her own, without any kind of barrier between them.

"No, it is… this is perfect."

No one has ever described her cold feet—or  _her_ for that matter—like  _that_ , and she didn't think anyone ever would, but here she is… being pleasantly surprised by Mr. Gold, once more.

"Good night, Miss French," he murmurs, still so very formal and reluctant to touch her, after all they've experienced together—even as he sighs in undeniable longing when she dares to rest her hand on his chest.

"Good night, Mr. Gold."

This may not be the mind-blowing pleasure she was hoping for, but it's still very pleasant in its own right… and she hopes it will make for a yet better awakening than the two she's had during this sleepover so far.


	23. Monday, 7.15 am

Waking gradually, Belle sighs in sheer bliss, more comfortable than she has been in a long time. She's pleasantly warm, and the pillow and mattress she's lying on are of the perfect firmness. The pale light falling into the room through the uncovered windows announces the arrival of a new day.

Shifting a little, finding her muscles wonderfully loose, she idly wonders which host has given her such a good bed. As she moves though, she finds that she isn't alone in it. That is hardly new, but the arm flung around her waist definitely is… and so is the hardness pressing none too lightly against her rear.

"Sweetheart…"

Shivering when she recognizes Mr. Gold's sleepy voice, her consciousness very quickly picks up on the events of the past night—and the ones that must have occurred while both of them were asleep.

No wonder she's feeling so wonderful, wrapped in his arms and spooned by him like this. As long as he's awake, he may hide his attraction towards her—even when she's finally starting to believe it's actually there—but when he's  _sleeping_ …

Fully awake by now, she marvels at how well they fit against one another, just about his entire front pressed flush to the back of her own body. Her barely functional excuse for a nightdress must have hitched up around her during the night, for the palm of his hand is resting on her bare stomach. That also means that only his clothes are preventing his arousal from being in direct contact to her skin.

"Mr. Gold?" she asks softly, trying to find out whether he has properly awoken as well.

Distantly wondering how he can have her desire spiking without being awake or even in her line of sight, she moans when his only reaction to her words is to press himself more firmly against her buttocks. While doing so, he lets out a similar sound, further fueling her want for him.

Still, she can't forget that her host has been reluctant to say the least to do anything like this in the past few days. He appears to be half asleep, even though some parts of his body are very much not, and she tells herself to  _calm down_. There's no way of knowing for certain whether he actually wants this right now—he might not even realize that  _she_  is in the bed with him.

" _Belle_ ," he groans against her neck, the sound going straight to her core.

Her breathing hard, hearing him say her name arouses her yet more than the feeling of his body against her own. Unable to remain still any longer, she experimentally pushes herself backwards a little. He  _gasps_  at the increased friction, rocking his body more firmly into her.

This is hardly what she had in mind when she went to his bedroom last night, but now that they're grinding together in this rather helpless and wholly instinctive manner, it feels like a very suitable expression of the tension that has been building between them all weekend, always interrupted right before its breaking point.

"Feels so good," he practically whimpers, his voice muted as he buries his face into her hair.

" _Yes_ ," she replies, thoroughly grateful that they're giving in to their attraction at last. "Let's make it better yet."

Barely thinking at all, she grasps his hand and guides it from her stomach to her chest. Both of them cry out when he cups one of her breasts firmly beneath her negligee, his extreme carefulness finally out of the window, at least for a little while. Still, she can't get enough of him, and she has the presence of mind to let gravity lend them a helping hand.

It takes some maneuvering—something rather challenging in the state they're in—but she does manage to guide him on top of her. Belle herself ends up on her stomach as he blindly collapses on her once he has grasped her intent—without letting go of her chest.

This wasn't quite what she had planned, but she wouldn't have it any other way, finding very quickly that she's now in the perfect position to grind back against him. At the same time, she can potentially bring his other hand to the juncture of her thigh, which is of course another great advantage.

Still, for a moment, all she can do is savor the situation, this fantasy turned reality. Mr. Gold's touches are artless to say the least, but that only makes her enjoy them more. It's so utterly  _him_ , and there's no doubt in her mind that once the initial rush has worn off, he will be very open to her suggestions on how to bring her pleasure directly as well.

In the meantime, she has his low and disbelieving groans, his hot and moist breath against her neck, the almost frantic movements of his body against her own. In the throes of his passion, he's still as loving as he has been in every moment that she has known him, and  _that_ can't be taught.

More than that, the awareness that this is  _him_ makes this perfect—the friction of his hard length against her rear and his almost clumsy hand on her breasts arousing her more than anything or anyone has ever done in the past.

Although she can solely marvel at both his gentleness and the sheer force of his finally unleashed passion, one never excluding the other, his pleasure is starting to consume her as well. Belle must have  _more_ , and she unceremoniously pulls his hand between her already entirely bare legs, until it's right where she most craves it.

He is too far gone to purposefully move his fingers in order to provide the stimulation she longs for, but she doesn't need much more either. She all but shrieks, the sound muffled by the pillow beneath her face, when she rubs her most sensitive spot right against his fingers by sheer luck.

Belle grasps the mattress as she tries to find that sweet angle again. Between the facts that her entire body is trembling and that his is covering both his hand and her lower half, this isn't easy to say the least, but that doesn't prevent her from finding another few instants of absolute bliss. It feels better yet when she moves in time with him, so that his body on top of hers provides additional weight and thus additional stimulation.

"Oh yes," she brings out, her eyes closing tightly as the delicious tension inside of her rises higher and higher.

" _Belle_! It's almost… I'm going to…"

"Let it happen, yes," she encourages him, half-drunk on the awareness that _she_  is making him come undone.

As if it were the sound of her own pleasure that caused him to find his release, Mr. Gold shudders above her, his body jerking in a wholly instinctive manner. She cries out right along with him, even though his hand shifts away from where she needs it, the sound and feeling of the bliss overtaking him as wonderful as the experience of finding that precious precipice herself.

It takes a long, glorious while for him to come back to himself, grunting her name and rubbing against her the whole time. How lovely it is to find his true feelings, once finally expressed, to be so strong and unconstrained.

He nuzzles her neck, entwining his hands with hers where they're still clinging to the mattress. Despite the insisting ache between her thighs, she is more endeared than anything else when he goes entirely limp on top of her, after whispering her name one more time in sheer reverence.

"I love you so much."

Her mouth falls open when those words register in her mind. Previously, there was  _no way_  that her almost constantly stoic host would have said anything along those lines. It still doesn't make any sense, given that they've only spent a single weekend together, and he's been guarded for the great majority of that time.

But he just all but made love to her, and she's been so tuned in to his every reaction that there's no point in doubting what he just said. So now Belle is bewildered, triumphant, hopeful beyond words  _and_  very much aroused—and the man who has prompted all this has fallen asleep on top of her, starting to snore lightly.

He makes a noise of protest when she wriggles from under him. For sure, it was beyond pleasant to have him on top of her—but she wants to see him, needs to look at the man who has shaken the axis of her world.

His face is towards her when she manages to turn around, looking more relaxed than she thought anyone could be, let alone the usually so very tense former businessman. She smiles at him with affection, her heart swelling with the realization that in the course of the past weekend, her feelings for him have transformed from fascination into affection and admiration and, indeed, the very sentiment he just expressed.

She reaches for him with tentative fingertips, not wanting to wake him now that he is looking so peaceful, recalling only too well the way he always avoided such touches until very recently. Her caress over his cheeks is feather-light and she beams with joy when he tilts his face into her touch, whispering her name again, even in his sleep.

Indeed, he is smiling as well, as if his nightmares have been replaced by wonderful dreams—dreams of  _her_. It makes him yet more handsome, and her yet happier.

Belle keeps lying there at his side for several minutes, his declaration of love echoing in her mind. Regardless of whether his words were only driven by the aftermath of his release, she only wants him more, her fingers drifting to where his have just been, right where she still needs  _something_  to soothe the ache throbbing there.

She almost gives in to her urge to bring herself to completion right there and now, falling asleep again afterwards, right beside him. But she's getting rather chilly, even under the blankets, now that the perspiration from her efforts is drying on her skin, and she doesn't want to risk interrupting his rest—just like she doesn't want to wake up as sticky as she intends to make herself.

Glancing at the door leading to the bathroom where she found such relief after her adventure in the lake, she realizes she has found the perfect way to pursue her own pleasure, getting nicely warm and clean in the process while letting her host sleep for now.

Carefully slipping out from beneath the covers, she casually drops her negligee on the floor. She'd love to make a trail of clothing from the bed to the bath, an implicit invitation for him to join her as soon as he wakes, but it's not as if she had any more items to do it with. As a compromise, she leaves the door to the bathroom ajar, so he will know exactly where to find her—and that she  _very_  much would like him to do so.

Shivering in excitement and arousal again, Belle is determined to make use of his bathroom in a far more enjoyable fashion than last time. The person who inspires all this might be asleep now, but that won't prevent her from seeking her own release before he is around again to offer her a helping hand.


	24. Monday, 7.30 am

Belle gets into the bath as soon as it is filled with a few inches of water. Not having any more clothing to divest herself of, she glances back into the bedroom, the door just pushed enough to allow her to see Mr. Gold still sleeping peacefully. With some luck, he will soon wake, reinvigorated and eager to join her.

For now, she is determined to find some satisfaction, finish what he started while he gets some much-deserved and needed rest—and, hopefully, gets ready for  _her_  again. The prospect of what might happen once he is awake makes her only more eager for her release, both now and later.

She didn't expect to ever do anything like this in any of the houses where her sleepovers are recorded—or her own, for that matter—not even after finding out that she would be spending a weekend with the once ruthless businessman who had intrigued her for years. But despite the awareness that he could wake up at any moment and see exactly what she's doing, Belle doesn't hesitate for a second as she reclines in the currently still mostly empty tub and reaches for the detachable shower head.

The previous time she was there, she was almost entirely focused on getting warm and thinking of the man who had got her out of the cold. Right now, she's already very warm indeed, and imagining the very same man makes her feel hotter yet.

Quivering with excitement and arousal, Belle closes her eyes and pictures Mr. Gold as she aims the shower head at her chest, increasing the temperature and the force of the spray with a single turn of a tap. She groans at the impact of the hot water against her front, trailing her free hand upwards from her belly.

The water dripping down her body and gathering in the tub, she cups her left breast in her hand, pleasantly surprised by how sensitive it turns out to be—a jolt of pleasure adding directly to the ache between her thighs. No matter how tempting it would be to rush this, she wants to take her time, savor this moment—also because it will increase the odds that her host will wake up and join her.

She imagines it's  _his_  hand that starts to knead her breasts, in that ever so careful and experimental way of his that she loves so much. Belle can all but feel his eyes on her, filled with wonder and love and disbelief, heavy and dark. Focusing on that very pleasant image, she trails her fingers up and down her own chest, teasing, stoking the fire that he lit within her.

Soon, that isn't enough anymore, both her free hand and the one that holds the shower head changing their focus. Caressing her inner thigh while she spreads her legs as wide as the sides of the tub allow her, she slowly but surely aims the spray of water to her folds and the highly sensitive spot between them.

Breathing heavily in the steam rising from the tub, she gasps at the first stimulation the water brings right where she needs it. Using her left hand to expose herself as much as possible, she cries out when the spray reaches her at a perfect angle.

Bracing her feet against the edges of the bath, her hips buck of their own accord into the yielding liquid. This could make her come undone very quickly after all, hot pressure building low in her belly despite the lack of anything solid to move against.

But right when her entire body begins to quake and she senses that her satisfaction is not far away, the surface of the water reaches a point that keeps the spray from hitting her body directly. It takes away the friction she seeks, but she's far from deterred.

Quickly putting the shower head back in its holder and aiming it at her upper body again, she slides up to her chin into the warm water. Both her hands free now, she continues with two sets of fingers, shuddering in anticipation of the satisfaction that will probably be yet more profound when she finally finds her release after all.

Her breath quickening, she tries to go slowly, draw this out for as long as she can. But there's no more holding back when she thinks of what she and Mr. Gold did this morning, all of his usual inhibitions gone, while her intent fingers keep moving purposefully at the juncture of her thighs.

On the screen of her closed eyelids, he steps into the bathroom, wasting no time to free himself of his pajamas at last and join her in the tub. Her hands are his as she increases the pace, spiraling higher and higher, gasping and moaning as she imagines herself in his arms, pulled tightly against his chest.

Rubbing firmly right where the friction has the most pleasure spreading all through her, she's almost taken aback by the intensity of her body's reactions—and surely, it will be even better once she can experience something like this while Mr. Gold is actually with her, participating or merely watching.

For a moment, she opens her eyes with difficulty, slightly disappointed that he hasn't appeared after all. But she can't hold back any longer, nor does she want to, for as far as she's still capable of making rational decisions anyway. She is rather sure that this alone is going to bring her more satisfaction than anything or anyone ever has.

A few seconds later, her estimation turns out to be wholly correct. Not that she thinks of that when she cries out, pleasure she's never known before shooting all the way through her as her entire body shakes in the hot water. Her thighs instinctively clamping down on her hands, she keeps them moving to the best of her abilities, almost making it seem like this bliss will never end.

After a long, perfect while, Belle comes down from her high somewhat. Letting out an utterly contented sigh, she relaxes against the edge of the tub behind her back, her eyes still closed. Her body feels deliciously warm and sated, and she could get used to that very, very easily.

She likes to think that this amazing feeling will be the rule rather than the exception from now on.

There's still no sign of Mr. Gold as she languidly relaxes in the tub, the water getting so high that she has to turn off the tap to prevent it from overflowing. No matter how much she would like him to be here, she still completely enjoys this moment on her own, happily soaking in his hot bath.

It gets better yet when she belatedly realizes that his bathing products are just nearby, on a shelf located within her reach. She curiously opens them one by one, sniffing their scents, until she finds the one that smells most like him. She adds a generous quantity of the soap to her bath, not caring that the water is too still to create any foam as long as she can enjoy its fragrance.

She laughs out loud when she finds that her body is incidentally  _still_  twitching, her core throbbing in completion rather than need now. She may have come here with some expectations regarding the life of her host, but she couldn't have imagined that within mere days, she'd come to crave to be part of it.

Knowing that she  _is_  now, to at least some extent, brings a broad smile to her face as she lazes in the bath. When the water begins to get cold, she drains it and takes a shower, the chance to use his soap and shampoo making the experience lovelier yet—not to mention the fact that her legs are weak in the very best of ways.

She's still grinning by the time she gets out of the tub and dries herself; all things considered, this is the best morning she's had in a long time, if not ever.

There are no clothes there for her to change into, since she left her negligee on the floor of his bedroom and wasn't exactly wearing anything else last night. It's no matter at all to her, and after only the briefest hesitation, she steps back into his bedroom without a scratch of fabric on her body.

Having expected to either crawl back into bed next to his still sleeping form or have his recently woken self stare at her with wide and eager eyes, Belle stands dead in her tracks when she finds the bedroom completely empty.

She doesn't know how long she has spent in his bathroom exactly, but the door was open the whole time, and there's no way he couldn't hear her cries of pleasure, or didn't even see the steam which has reached this room as well.

Before disappointment or even horror can overwhelm her at the apparent discovery that he has purposefully left her on her own after what they shared this morning, she thinks back on how doting and generous he has been all weekend. Rather than having escaped from her all over again, right at a time when she can barely bear it any longer, it occurs to her that he is doubtlessly busy making them breakfast.

Smiling as she recalls the way he has consistently provided food for her over the past few days, she takes a closer look at the currently abandoned room. She finds her negligee, neatly folded, on the side of the bed where she slept last night. In her mind's eye, she can practically  _see_  him handling the flimsy fabric lovingly.

It's tempting to say the least to collapse onto the bed and await his return. She doesn't wish Mr. Gold were with her any longer, because at this point, there is no need to wish anymore. Rather than ending the sleepover this morning as planned, it's very likely that he will invite her to stay for at least a few more days, as soon as she sees him.

Still, she doesn't want to wait for him. She  _misses_  him, even though it can't have been more than an hour since she last saw him—right after he found his completion with her. Spotting a set of slippers and a robe that must belong to him in a wardrobe on the other side of the room, she quickly slips into these items of his.

But as she leaves the room, unlike the last two mornings, Belle isn't met by the smells of an extensive breakfast being prepared. In fact, there's no sign of life from the kitchen or the adjoining living room at all.

Frowning, not understanding where her host has gone—especially after what they just shared—she hastily makes her way to the bottom of the stairs. But before she can reach it, Mr. Gold steps towards her from the shadows, as if he had been waiting for her.

"Miss French," he says, sounding yet more formal than before, much to her bewilderment. "I…"

"What is it?" she asks, completely lost as to what's going on and horrified by how pale and tense he's looking, almost as if something was haunting him.

"I beg your forgiveness for what happened this morning," he states, staring at a point somewhere right above her shoulder. "I know that I can't undo what I did, but at least I should…"

"What are you  _talking about_?"

"Did I… did I  _hurt_  you?" he breathes, looking utterly terrified.

"No! Why would you even think…"

"I must have scared you, made you uncomfortable," he continues, only confusing and worrying her further.

"No, not at all! Why would you even… how can you  _think_  that?"

"So you're saying that what I did was… consensual?" he gasps, sounding thoroughly relieved—but hardly any less unhappy.

"Of course it was!" she cries out, utterly unable to grasp how he can have such a different recollection from her own of what they did earlier. "What on earth makes you believe that…"

"Miss French,  _please_ ," he interrupts her, pleading, what appears to be  _tears_  shimmering in his eyes. "If I don't need to beg your forgiveness, if we don't need to find a way to… compensate you for my actions, then I must ask of you, I must  _implore_  you…"

"What?" she urges as he falters.

Belle frantically searches his face for anything that might reveal to her what is going on here, what has changed so drastically in the course of the last hour—but she doesn't find even the smallest of clues.

"Please, let us never speak again of what happened between us. Please, let us forget that it occurred at all."

And before she can say anything in response, before she can even start trying to make sense of all this, Mr. Gold quickly walks away from her.


	25. Monday, 8.40 am

"What the hell happened between you and Gold last night?!"

Her previously utterly content body struggling to catch up with the way their host just sent her reeling with his apparent conviction that he had given her pain and discomfort rather than delight and pleasure, Belle blinks up in confusion when Ruby grasps her arm.

Only once her friend has practically dragged her outside, into the fresh air, does she finally regain enough presence of mind to mentally process the question.

"Talk to me, hon! Gold has been acting strange since the moment I saw him downstairs—stranger than usual, that is—and you look like he just burned your favorite book right in front of your eyes. It's freaking me out. Do I need to kick his ass for you?"

"How did you know he and I spent the night together?" she asks in return, unable to make sense of everything that's suddenly happening around her. Still, she blushes as she thinks back on the negligee and condom, of which Ruby is as aware as Belle herself. "Did you _hear_  us?"

"No, thank God. I was wearing earplugs to avoid exactly that. But even if I hadn't... It was practically written on your forehead when we said goodnight yesterday that you were planning to go to his room, and it was particularly clear this morning that something had happened between the two of you during the night."

"Well, not technically," she murmurs, remembering the way he barely even looked at her, let alone touched her, when she sneaked into his room… such a contrast to this morning's awakening.

"Technically not what?" her friend inquires suspiciously. "Couldn't he get it up? Is that why he's being so cranky?"

"Ruby!" she hisses, scandalized—and blushing yet more deeply at the reminder that this was  _not_  an issue with him.

"What was it then?" she tries again, only sounding more concerned.

"I did go to his room last night, in exactly the way you suggested. I had hoped… well, it must be clear what I hoped. But he barely even looked at me. I mean, he  _did,_  briefly, and I thought that he liked seeing me like that… liked it a lot. He invited me into his bed, but his only motivation seemed to be the desire of sparing me a cold, given what little clothing I was wearing."

"I don't even know whether to be bewildered or not by his behavior at this point," Ruby remarks, shaking her head. "So, what happened next?"

"Not much, like I said. We talked briefly, and I took some pictures of us on my phone…  _innocent_  pictures, which he was interested in having as well. We cuddled, and fell asleep like that. That was all that happened last night."

"What about this morning?" Ruby pushes, the distrust back in her voice.

"Something did happen this morning," Belle sighs, reluctant to continue. "I woke up, and I felt…"

"His morning glory?" her friend suggests without missing a beat.

"Yes, that," she confirms, her cheeks burning yet redder. "I could feel it clearly, since he was spooning me. It was… nice.  _Really_  nice. But he was still asleep, and I figured he might very well be dreaming about someone completely different… until he  _said my name_."

"Told you he's attracted to you," Ruby points out, not sounding surprised at all. "So, you put those condoms to good use?"

"Not exactly," Belle murmurs, lowering her gaze.

"Are you telling me that you had sex with him and didn't use protection?! Surely he can't have been so distracting that you'd risk finding yourself with a  _baby_ or a STD as a keepsake for this weekend?"

"It wasn't like that at all!"

"Then what  _was_  it like? Come on hon, talk to me!"

"We didn't have sex, not technically," she tries to clarify, beginning to grow a dislike for that last word. "We… moved together, if you know what I mean."

"You dry-humped, like the two adults you actually are," Ruby notes laconically.

"I suppose we did. It felt really good, whatever you want to call it."

"That good, huh? So, how many times did he make you come?"

"Ruby!" she cries out, remembering too late that  _this_ is one reason why she doesn't discuss her sex life with her friend in detail, and preferably not at all—not that there  _is_  much to discuss. Not even now.

"How often was it? Come on, this is important!"

"Well…"

"Unless… oh please, Belle, tell me that isn't true."

"He fell asleep again right after he… well. But it isn't nearly as bad as it may sound! It felt  _amazing_  that he should be able to lose control the way he did with me."

"But clearly not so amazing that you actually came."

"No, but… afterwards, I did."

"On your own, you mean. While he slept."

"Yes."

"Oh hon, it doesn't count if you did it yourself. Not like this."

"It was really good, though," Belle finds herself saying, almost defiant, in complete disagreement with her friend for once.

"Do you reckon Gold has any alcohol we might borrow? This feels like the kind of conversation one shouldn't have sober, at least for you."

"It's not even nine o'clock yet," she replies absent-mindedly, although she couldn't care less about her friend's drinking habits right now.

She glances back at the house, figuring that she might have to go along with this if it's the only way she can get advice rather than judgment from Ruby. Through the window of the back door, she spots a glimpse of a figure with long hair and a tailored three-piece suit, stepping out of sight—before noticing the door itself, which they must have left partially open when they went outside.

" _Damn_ ," Belle mutters, realizing that he probably overheard them.

Knowing him, it was wholly incidental, but that doesn't change her fear that he must at least have caught the part where Ruby implied that they had touched like very inexperienced, not-quite adults, and that he'd utterly and unforgivably failed her by not giving her at least four orgasms.

He doubtlessly also heard her saying that he had lost control with her… although, given his pessimistic outlook on life, he probably didn't pick up on her mentioning how much she'd enjoyed that, right in the same breath. The doubts that for some reason, he is clearly harboring about her perception of their night together will certainly have got even worse.

Belle wants nothing more than to go after him, reassure him, tell him— _show_  him—exactly what her feelings about him are, and that if he indeed shares them, she couldn't be happier about it. But she's tried and failed so often to truly connect with him in the recent past that she doesn't want to have this conversation before she feels more confident that it will truly lead to something more sustainable.

So she takes her friend's arm in her hand and rather firmly guides her further away from the house, wishing to make certain that he can't hear any more of their conversation.

"He told me he  _loves_  me, but afterwards, he left and seemed to think he had hurt me in some way, and he all but begged me to never speak to him again of what happened this morning!"

"I see," Ruby replies, her expression softening. "You really care about Gold, don't you? But why would he think he  _hurt_  you? He didn't actually do anything of the sort, did he?"

"He didn't hurt me at all! He only made me feel really good," she says, tears welling in her eyes as she thinks back on his inexplicable statements. "And yes, I do really care about him. Very, very much. I… I love him."

"I hope I didn't come across as too harsh," her friend replies, her face gentler and more serious after Belle's declaration of love for their host. "I'm worried about you, hon, and I want what's best for you, but you don't seem to be getting all the wonderfulness you deserve. I only want to help you, you know? And sometimes, it feels like the best way to do that is to try and talk some sense into you…"

"I know. I appreciate that. It's just… I don't know what to do, and I'm hoping  _you_  might have a clue."

"You  _know_  I don't fall for men, don't you?"

"I know, Ruby. Sorry. It's just… you've  _been_  with them, in the past."

"I've been with more of them than you, that's what you're saying."

"I… well, yes."

"It's okay hon, there's no need to get all tense as well."

"I feel awful, though," she remarks, hating the way her glorious morning with him turned into  _this_ , and she has no idea how or why.

"Come here," Ruby says, enveloping her in a warm hug.

Belle sighs, feeling a little better once in her friend's protective embrace.

"I've never heard you talk like this about a guy before," the latter adds, stroking her back.

"I know. I've never felt like this about anyone. It's like something out of a book. Except it's all wrong. It should be wonderful, because I'm fairly certain he feels the same way about me. But again and again, shortly after we get closer, he acts like he doesn't want what we have, like he doesn't want  _me_ , and… it's awful, but I don't want to walk away before I can at least understand what's driving him to behave like this."

"He declared his love for you when you were in bed together, right?"

"He did."

"Was that before or after he came?"

"After."

"So at least, he wasn't only trying to get into your pants."

"Mr. Gold isn't the type to do anything like that anyway, is he?" she asks, sensing in her heart that this is true, but needing her friend to acknowledge it as well, since their host has already made her doubt quite a few other things.

"I don't think he is like that, no," she replies, playfully bumping against her. "You could do a whole lot worse for yourself."

"Still, it's not like we're together now."

"True. Besides, post-coital men can be… well. And I must say, I think that's especially the case for Gold."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let's face it… that man has probably only had his right hand for company for a long, long time. I mean, he went right to sleep before he could even return the favor to you!"

"So?" Belle asks, rather distracted by the mental image of him and said right hand.

"Do you suppose he got… sentimental? Declared something he was only feeling right after climaxing with an actual woman? I hate to say this, but professing his love for you seems more out of character than abandoning you in his room, thinking he had hurt you and not wanting to talk about or even remember any of it."

"I… I don't know," Belle whispers, having never thought about such things before. "Do you suppose Mr. Gold could be like that?"

Rather than answering her, Ruby chuckles as if at some private joke.

"What?" she asks, knowing better than to think her friend is making fun of her, but not seeing at all what's so funny.

"The two of you almost had sex, after spending an entire weekend almost constantly together, but you're still referring to him like someone you barely know... you're still not even on first name terms!"

"It's not like I even learned his first name," she sighs, mentally adding that to the list of things that are not quite normal about their relationship—or lack thereof. "I feel like I do know him. Very well. It's just… there are so many layers to him, and whenever I uncover another one, it seems like there are two more beneath them."

"Sounds like exactly the right kind of guy for you," Ruby remarks, gently ending their embrace to study her face.

"I think he is, yes," she agrees, smiling at the wonderfulness they've found together within the course of a single weekend, despite all the confusion and frustration that come right along with it. "Although all of this is a bit scary, too."

"Maybe that's it!" Ruby cries out, her tone suddenly triumphant. "Maybe he's scared, and a whole lot more than you are! Maybe  _that_ is why he keeps reaching out to you, and then withdrawing almost at the same time."

"What do you mean?" she prompts, thrilled of this possible insight into their host's motivations.

"You heard him talk about his ex-wife in the interview, right? He didn't say much about her, but clearly their relationship didn't end well, and it wasn't so great in the beginning either. It sounded like she was the first woman he was with, and like there hasn't really been anyone since that time, or at least no long-term or serious relationship."

"What are you saying?" she asks, glad to see Ruby confirm her own assumptions regarding his personal life.

"So imagine you're him, okay? You've been here for  _years_ , all lonesome and miserable in this big house. All of a sudden, you're not alone anymore—instead, you're sharing your home with two younger women, one of which seems pretty into you from the very beginning. You spend a lot of time with her, you share a bed and have an orgasm, for what might well be the first time ever with someone you actually have deep feelings for, no matter how confusing they might be. Something tells me that means a lot to Gold."

"That sounds… accurate. So why would he be scared of any of that?"

"Let's assume he has developed feelings for you as well. But what happens after this morning? Officially, this sleepover is about to end, and both of us will leave here and never come back. Have either of you brought up the next occasion you will have of seeing each other, whether the two of you will stay in touch in the first place?"

"I…" She falters, awareness of a rather unpleasant kind welling up inside of her as this very likely explanation of his ever so contradictory behavior is revealed to her. "I did hint that I didn't want to leave, that I want to get back in touch with him once the episode airs but…"

"You haven't truly talked about it at all, have you?" Ruby asks softly. "Not concretely, at least."

"He hasn't asked me to stay!" she exclaims, although this sounds rather hollow now, even to her own ears.

"You haven't offered either, though, have you? Or at least, not in a serious enough manner to persuade him."

"I haven't, no," Belle admits, suddenly feeling a little optimism once more, along with the conviction that she's finally finding out why he has acted towards her the way he has.

"What are you waiting for?" Ruby asks, grinning at her. "Come on, go talk to him!"

Not wasting one second, Belle rushes back into the house, back to Mr. Gold, as hope and love blossom within her all over again.


	26. Monday, 8.55 am

Her prospect of an open conversation with Mr. Gold soon ends in disappointment as Belle finds him in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the three of them. He is refusing to meet her gaze, even when she tentatively greets him.

"Can we talk for a moment?" she asks, stepping towards him.

It made so much sense when Ruby suggested to her that he was very nervous about their relationship, having been alone for as long as he had. The idea of taking those fears away even seemed easy when she and her friend were out in the open. But now that she's back in side, back with their host, the house in which she previously felt so at ease seems almost stifling.

As if that weren't bad enough, Mr. Gold looks like he wants to be anywhere but with her, like he can't wait for Ruby and especially her to leave.

"I'd sincerely rather not," he says tensely, taking a step backwards, a plate of croissants in his hand.

"I really don't want to go without having at least resolved what's going on between us."

"There is no us," he answers thickly, putting the bread on the table before all but fleeing back towards the kitchen.

"How can you say that?" she exclaims, grasping his arm in an attempt to connect with him in at least some way. "We're obviously hardly a couple, but something definitely happened between us. I really wish we could acknowledge that, talk about what this means for the future."

"Please don't touch me," he responds icily, wrenching his arm away from her.

Belle is horrified by this rejection, particularly the way in which he makes it. It's a glimpse of the man she supposes he must once have been, with a frozen heart and so much anger inside. His face is void of any emotion—or so it appears, at least.

By now, she knows him well enough to recognize his restless fingers and practically  _too_  neutral expression as signs of distress. He isn't afraid or angry, he is  _terrified_ , and she has no idea why, what he's so scared of in the first place.

"I want to be with you," she cries out before she can think better of it, assuming that he doubts her intentions towards him and wanting to reassure him of them.

"You don't want to be with me, Miss French. You really don't."

She opens her mouth to protest, to somehow break through this wall he has erected all around him without warning. But there's such barely concealed despair in his gaze that she all but freezes, not understanding where all of this is coming from, why he is rejecting her this way—and only doing so now.

"Breakfast is ready," he announces, gesturing at the set table.

She instinctively follows the movement of his hand, frowning deeply and blinking in confusion when she only spots two plates. By the time she looks back to her host to ask why he doesn't appear to be planning to join them, he's already by the door, quickly slipping through it and closing it firmly a second later.

Groaning in frustration, she goes back outside to retrieve Ruby, suppressing the envy that wells up inside of her when she finds her grinning at her phone, clearly busy having a lovely and easy interaction with her girlfriend.

"I take it that it didn't go well?" Ruby inquires after one look at her face, immediately putting her phone away as her smile falls.

"It appears he doesn't even want to be in the same room as me anymore," she states, feeling like she would start crying if it weren't for the episode they still have to finish shooting.

"I'm so sorry," her friend replies, pulling her into another comforting hug. "Are you okay?"

"I think so. I mean, I'm mostly upset for  _his_  sake… but then again, it's not as if it were only him in this romance I envision for us, the one he doesn't want to consider, despite the fact that he told me he  _loved_  me only two hours or so ago. He's taking it away for  _me_  as well. Of course I won't force or pressure him into anything, but at least we should be able to talk about this, right?"

"Right," Ruby sighs, patting her back. "Maybe you can try again later? Let him calm down and get back to his senses while we have breakfast?"

"Let's hope so."

"Should I get the camera? I've already packed my other stuff."

"I highly doubt he'll show up in the meantime, let alone that anything worth recording will happen, but I guess it'd be best if we gathered all our things so we can leave whenever we want."

"Okay. See you back here in five minutes? That breakfast isn't getting anywhere."

"Good idea," Belle mumbles, even though she loathes the prospect of leaving this house, especially under the circumstances.

But there's nothing for it but to pack, no sign of Mr. Gold when she and Ruby head upstairs. It only takes a matter of minutes for Belle to throw the few belongings she has taken here back into her suitcase. While waiting for Ruby to finish packing as well, she walks up and down the landing, but their host is nowhere to be seen.

Breakfast is a miserable affair. It's not any less extensive than the previous two mornings, but the few sips of fresh orange juice she tries taste like ashes in her mouth now that he isn't with them, conversing and smiling.

"At least eat some yogurt," Ruby suggests gently, shoving said food in her direction.

Belle nods in agreement, knowing that she won't make her situation any better by not eating. She robotically empties half a bowl, her gaze roaming over the already so familiar walls and decorations around her, which were beginning to feel like home—still do, if in a far less optimistic way.

"What do you want to do now?" Ruby asks once they're both done eating.

"Let's at least clean this up and put something in the fridge for him, so he can eat a little by the time he emerges again."

It's not that she particularly feels like tidying after their breakfast, especially as long as he doubtlessly hasn't eaten anything himself, but at least the self-proposed task will give her some much-needed time to think, now that there appears to be nothing else to keep them here.

Still, they have cleared the table all too soon, and she's no step closer to deciding what she might do before putting a definite end to her time here and her relationship with Mr. Gold—whatever the nature of that may actually be.

"Come on, go look for him if you want," Ruby says, doubtlessly reading the doubt on her face.

That turns out to be easier said than done. In addition to not spotting him on the first floor, he doesn't appear to be in the attic or the basement either. That only leaves the one room in the house she hasn't seen so far, the one that has been locked to her all this time. She was curious about this before, to say the least, but now she couldn't care less about what may be in there other than the owner himself.

She knocks on the door, not surprised at all when this doesn't evoke a reaction. It's similarly expected that it should not open when she tries the handle, and that he fails to at least confirm his presence when she calls out his name.

"Mr. Gold? I know you're here," she attempts, although she's very much aware that he might also have gone outside. "I won't leave until I've said goodbye to you properly, at least."

Once more, there's nothing but silence, and she feels close to giving up. But the flicker of light coming from beneath the door gives her a bout of inspiration. When she kneels down to peek through the tiny space between it and the floor, she spots a pair of familiar shoes, right on the other side, surrounded by bright daylight.

"I can  _see_  you," she adds, subconsciously raising her voice in an attempt to reach out to him. "Please, just…"

" _Leave_ , _"_  he demands from the other side of the panel, not sounding angry—only very, very sad—as he speaks after all.

"I won't go until you've come out," she pleads after a few seconds, taken aback by the sheer sorrow in his voice.

"If you don't get out of my house this very instant, I'll throw you out myself," he adds, still sounding like he's about to cry rather than even barricade the door between them, let alone bodily drag her from his premises.

"Why don't you?" she asks quietly, calling his bluff.

"Just… just  _go_ , Miss French. Leave.  _Please._ "

"Why can't you tell me why you want me to go? What changed between now and this morning?"

"I… I don't want you anymore."

Belle was quite certain there was nothing he could possibly tell her at this point that would cause her to leave of her own accord, but it appears he has found a way after all. That short, single statement reminds her that she isn't only invested in their relationship for his sake, but at least as much for her own.

The mere notion that the only person whose affection and desire she wants—the only person she's ever truly fallen in love with—doesn't return that feeling is difficult enough, especially since she's convinced that he truly did at a previous, very recent point. But to actually hear him say it…

It doesn't occur to Belle to question this sudden change, not anymore, now that he has flat-out said he wants her away because he is no longer interested in her. Tears welling in her eyes, she grabs her bag and noisily rushes down the stairs, almost running into Ruby, who is standing there waiting for her.

"Let's go," she says firmly, relieved when her friend asks no questions and simply follows her out of the door, not giving the house and its owner one last acknowledgment.

"I just texted Leroy," Ruby says, "he's on his way to pick us up."

"Good," Belle mutters, wanting nothing but to go home right now, back to her books and her peaceful solitude.

"It will take him at least an hour to get here, though."

"Well, at least we can make a head start," she replies, gesturing at the long driveway in front of them. "The gate might very well still be closed, so perhaps he won't even be able to get here."

"Whatever you want to do, hon."

"Let's go," she says, kicking off her heels, just like when she arrived here.

But as they head back the way they came, the atmosphere couldn't differ more. She was so enthusiastic then, eager and hopeful to meet the fascinating and highly mysterious Mr. Gold. Only three days ago, she could barely have dreamed of getting to know him the way she has, laughing and talking and swooning.

Now that everything is said and done, now that she has fallen in love with him, it isn't nearly enough.

They walk in silence until they reach the gate, which turns out to be open this time around. Sensing as she does that for some reason, he wants to get rid of her as quickly as he can, this open gate somehow looks less inviting than ever.

"I hate to say this under the circumstances, but we've still got to film an ending to this episode," Ruby points out once they're back on the main road.

"You're right," she agrees, having almost forgotten that all of this wasn't some sort of elaborate date from the beginning—that she's being paid to be here and create forty-five minutes of television.

"We can say that Gold was called away on urgent business and leave it at that, but we've still got to film a scene to wrap it all up."

"I know," Belle sighs, although she can't see for the life of her how she can currently present anything in the cheerful and upbeat style of their show.

"Let's go on for a while first, okay? This endless road all looks the same anyhow, and it'll probably be good for you to get away from that house."

"I guess," she replies, as in addition to having to pretend to be in a good mood, she has no idea whatsoever what she could possibly say to bring closure to this heavenly and yet beyond frustrating sleepover.

"At least this is the last episode of the season. We're both free from filming duties as soon as we've recorded this scene. You'll probably finally be able to read that pile of books you've gathered over the past few months."

"That would be nice, yes," she answers, although she doesn't want anything "nice" at the moment—she wants something  _amazing_ , which she had with a man whose first name she still doesn't even know.

"Besides, this might be the last episode ever. We shot some really good material; you got Gold to open up more than anyone before you—with any rich businessman, for that matter! If anything is going to prove that you're capable of carrying much more serious shows, this is it."

"You're right," she mumbles, although she doesn't really care about that right now, either.

"You know, we might as well shoot the last few minutes right now," Ruby suggests after they've walked another half a mile or so. "I've got the footage that we shot already on my laptop. Why don't you take a look at it, so you can be reminded of everything you and Gold did this weekend? He wasn't as weird as he was this morning all the time, after all."

"Indeed," she replies, feeling a bit better at this prospect—and not realizing that she's actually starting to sound a bit like Mr. Gold.

His rejection probably won't start hurting any less any time soon, but this way, she can at least pretend for a while that their weekend together—their whole relationship—didn't end nearly as badly as it just did.

"We can sit here," Ruby continues, gesturing at a fallen tree in the forest, next to the road.

As soon as Belle has seated herself on the log and started browsing through the video files, she temporarily forgets about his rejection after all, as she gets back to the recordings of their many happier meetings. A lot of them are merely refreshing her memory, but quite a few videos have also captured things she wasn't aware of at the time… most of them concerning their host himself.

Her heart surges when she sees him like this, without being entirely distracted by his presence at her side. It is also the first time she gets to observe him during the occasions when her back was towards him for a moment—precious seconds in which he probably forgot that he was being recorded.

She eagerly fast forwards through one minute of the raw footage after the other, almost drunk on the snippets she finds that way. Soon, she realizes that there are many such instants, and they all have something in common: Mr. Gold is looking at her as if his whole life revolved around her—only to glance away sooner rather than later, as if he thought that his gaze might offend her or make her uncomfortable.

Suddenly, all of his behavior this morning—over the course of the sleepover as a whole, really—makes a lot more sense.

"I have to get back to him," she says, hurriedly giving Ruby the laptop back. "I have to tell him exactly how I feel about him, because only then, he might admit that he feels exactly the same way."


	27. Monday, 9.25 am

Belle isn't thinking as she runs back towards the house where she spent the weekend, her heels discarded so they won't slow her down. Thinking will lead to uncertainty, to heartache, right when she's undertaking one last attempt to put an end to both of those.

There is no more doubt in her mind that Mr. Gold rejected her the way he did because he is convinced that she doesn't genuinely care about him, that his love is in fact unwanted—but she has been wrong about him before.

Even if she had thought in advance of something to say or do once she got back to the house and—hopefully—found him again, nothing could have prepared her for the sight that greets her when she reaches the gate. She is slowing down, catching her breath to prepare to climb over it once more, when she spots movement in its center.

Standing dead in her tracks, her mouth falls open as she spots a figure all but crumpled on the ground. They are on their knees, head bowed, hands clinging to the bars. The long, graying hair and the no longer impeccable suit leave no doubt whatsoever about the identity of this person.

"Mr. Gold?" she cries out, bewildered by what she's seeing.

"Bel… Miss French?" he brings out, his voice hoarse.

She gasps when he looks up at her, aghast because of the puffiness of his lids and the trail of tears running down his cheeks. He wipes his face as he struggles back to his feet, but they both know there's no denying how distressed he is.

"You… forgot something at my house, didn't you?" he asks, still rubbing at his eyes. "I… that's no problem at all. I'll just retrieve it for you, so you can go for good and forget all about…"

"I didn't leave anything at your home."

_Except my heart._

"But… why are you…"

"I didn't forget anything either," she adds softly, relieved that at least, he's no longer refusing to talk to her in the first place.

Rather than speaking to him further and trying to put all of those unfamiliar emotions into words, she reaches for the spot where his hands are still holding on to the iron bars of the gate, his knuckles white. He stares at her as she tentatively covers his fists with her palms, his eyes wide and guarded, but doesn't withdraw from her touch.

"I just really, really hope we can talk."

"What do you want to talk about?" he asks, his voice yet thicker than before, if at all possible.

"About us," she whispers, reaching for his face through the bars.

"There is no 'us'," he replies just as quietly, echoing his earlier words, even as he tilts his head to lean his cheek into her palm.

"I think there is, especially after this morning."

"We shouldn't have…  _I_ shouldn't have… I can't tell you how sorry I am for…"

"Please don't be. You've got  _nothing_  to be sorry for," she stresses, increasingly aware of the physical separation between them.

"Still… you shouldn't be here."

"I am here anyway," she states, wiping his tears away with much more gentleness than he did himself.

"Why did you come back?!"

"Because I don't want to… because I can't walk away from what happened between us. I can't walk away from  _you_."

"You shouldn't be with me," he breathes, sounding pained.

"You keep saying that. But you never tell me  _why_."

"Isn't it obvious?" he retorts, gesturing at himself, his hand lingering at his graying hair and bad ankle.

"All I see is a gorgeous, mature and intriguing man, generous and kind and witty, who is much more solitary than is good for him."

He lets out a sort of choking sound, staring at her like he still can't believe she's real. At least, he never breaks away from her hand, which is now openly caressing one side of his face.

"But this morning, when we were in bed…" he begins, his face flushing at the memory. "I… that can't have been pleasant for you. Why… how on earth are you not upset?"

"How about I answer that question when there are no more bars between us?" she suggests, gesturing at the gate she still has to reach through to touch him.

For a moment, she fears that Mr. Gold is going to refuse, keep shutting her out like he did earlier. But despite looking rather reluctant, he does retrieve a rather rusty key from his pocket and opens the gate for her. When she steps through, it feels to her like he's letting her back into both his property and his life.

"This is better, isn't it?" she asks, carefully walking towards him.

"I don't know," he murmurs, but he inches towards her as well.

"You truly don't see why I enjoyed what we did in bed this morning?"

"I still can't believe that I didn't accidentally hurt you, let alone…"

"What makes you even _think_  that?!"

"Having you in my bed… it was like a dream. I thought it  _was_  a dream. That was the only reason why I didn't move away the second I woke up and felt you next to me. Instead, I… I  _used_ you for my own gratification. You cried out, you pushed my hand off your chest… I fell asleep on top of you, and when I woke up, you were in the nearest bath you could find, washing me off yourself. I can't begin to describe how ashamed I am for all of that, and it's beyond me why you are insisting that nothing is wrong… that  _I_ am not wrong."

"You… is  _that_  what you think happened this morning?"

"I… I'm not entirely certain. My recollections are… hazy. But surely, there's no other explanation possible."

"I'm so sorry that you experienced all of this so differently than I did. I  _wanted_  you, if you still have doubts about that," she replies, his expression telling her that it is indeed very much the case. "I thought you were as awake as I was. I mean, I would gladly have woken you properly if I had been aware of the contrary, if only to avoid this understanding."

"What  _was_  it like for you?" he asks quietly, his gaze eager, even if his words are not.

"It was  _wonderful_ ," she breathes, wanting him to know this once and for all and shivering pleasantly at the memory of feeling him grind himself to completion against her, giving her declarations of admiration and love almost the whole time. "The reason you woke is probably that  _I_  was the one who started moving; if anything, I urged  _you_ on, for  _both_  our gratification."

"So you are saying… you  _wanted_  all of that to happen."

"I very much did," she confirms, wondering how he can still wonder about this, but knowing better than to ask right now. "As for the other things you mentioned… I cried out because what we did felt  _good_ , and I pushed your hand to a… more personal part of my body that I preferred you to touch at that moment. The reason I took a bath was that I wanted to… well, I touched myself and hoped you would join me once you were rested."

Belle falters, blushing, but she's particularly glad that she told this him out loud when his mouth falls open and relief almost visibly washes over him.

"All in all, my start of this morning was  _very_ enjoyable, and I'm only sorry that the aftermath was not."

She should have known better than to expect to resolve the misunderstandings between them and remove his reluctance to open up to her so easily. Still, it's a disappointment to say the least when his small smile rapidly falls again, and he lowers his head once more.

"There's something else, isn't there?" she guesses, for the first time not pleased at all with all those complex layers of his.

"You really want to know, don't you?" he sighs, at least not trying to physically distance himself from her again, to her relief.

"I do. Whatever it is, I want to get it out of the way once and for all."

Without saying another word, he turns around and heads back towards the house. She follows him in equal silence, wondering why they apparently need to return to his home for this. Having gotten to know him as well as she supposes anyone can in only three days, she hardly fears yet another revelation, although she is definitely worried by the way their perceptions of the same events tend to differ.

Still, they first encounter a more practical matter when arriving at his house. She falters on the porch when it dawns on her that she has reached this point on her bare feet again, her skin as grimy as it was the first time.

"When I saw you like this last Friday, mere minutes after meeting you, my first thought was to carry you to the kitchen myself," he states, following her gaze.

If this is supposed to scare her away from him, it is  _not_  working.

"Why don't you do so right now?" she whispers.

"I can think of a few reasons," he mutters back, gesturing at his bad ankle with his cane.

"Has  _that_  ever held you back before?"

"You're saying that you don't mind… that you would  _like_  me to carry you to the kitchen?"

"I was hoping it would be self-evident at this point, but yes… I'd really like you to carry me there."

"Let me know in case you change your mind," he replies, hooking his cane around his arm. "I'll try to do the same if this old body can't keep up after all."

He steps closer to her, and her breath is taken away in the best possible manner when he ever so carefully picks her up bridal-style, carrying her over the threshold. She wraps her arms around him, marveling at his strength and scent and gentleness—pretty much everything about him—and wishing with all her heart that this won't the last time she gets to be so near him.

"This sleepover must have gone in a completely different way than you'd imagined," he notes as he carefully limps through the hallway, holding her with great caution and apparent ease.

"It did, yes. But I'm very glad of that."

"Just wait a few more minutes before making that decision," he murmurs as they reach the kitchen far too soon.

He gently puts her down on one of the chairs, then retrieves the same bucket he used for this purpose the last time, filling it with lukewarm water and soap while searching for a cloth. Belle is overcome by a sense of deja vu when he puts the items in front of her, reaching questioningly for her feet.

"You must have thought me such a fool when I did this on the first day," he murmurs, cleaning her feet with yet more tenderness than before. "You doubtlessly still do."

"No, not at all," she breathes, trailing her fingers along his beautiful face. "I think this is beyond wonderful."

"You really are unusual, aren't you?" he comments affectionately, his hands lingering on her feet and lower legs, much to her delight.

"I don't think there's anything strange about finding such devotion delightful," she replies, thrilled when he leans into her touch again as she strokes his hair. "I, for one, _very_  much enjoy it."

"I can only hope that you'll keep doing so, even when you…"

He falters, hinting once again at this supposedly awful thing about him that will likely drive her away. She barely notices this time, for he also moves closer to her, sitting up on his knees to turn his attention to her feet—bare below the hemline of her skirt—lovingly brushing the dirt off them with his fingers.

"How can you possibly want any of this?" he whispers, caressing both her calves while he leans towards her, kissing one of her knees with an ardor that takes her breath away yet more than the gesture itself.

He looks up at her with almost haunted eyes, his mouth still against her flushed skin. If he is trying to scare her away again, he's doing a yet worse job of it than before.

"The way you feel now… you already had feelings for me before we even met, didn't you?" she asks, taking this as an implicit invitation to cup his face in both her hands, running her thumbs over his chin and tantalizingly close to his lips.

"I'll show you," he sighs, withdrawing from her again—as much as he can while remaining close enough to dry her feet.

Rather than getting to almost sensually slip them back into her heels, she has nothing to put on now, her shoes probably still next to the road at the spot where she sat down with Ruby.

"I'll get you something to put on," he says, also belatedly noticing her lack of footwear, and momentarily seeming to forget his quest to prove his unworthiness to her now that he is confronted with her missing heels.

"Why don't you show me what you want me to know first?"

His ever increasing care and gentleness make her more and more convinced that this can't be nearly as bad as he thinks, especially since they've developed quite the history of her thoroughly enjoying things about him that he is reluctant about or even ashamed of. Now that they're talking properly again, she senses that the sooner they get this hopefully last barrier between them out of the way, the better it will probably be.

"Very well," he sighs, yet more deeply than before, letting go of her with clear unwillingness.

She helps him get back on his feet, and follows him when he gestures to the staircase. Filled with both curiosity and slight trepidation, she sees that they're heading to the only room in the house she hasn't had access to all this time.


	28. Monday, 10.05 am

"Feel very free to leave any time you like," Mr. Gold says matter-of-factly when they reach the only door in his house that has been locked to her through the entire sleepover.

She may be convinced that nothing that might be behind this door can possibly be as horrible and shocking to her as he thinks it will, just like all of his feelings and revelations so far have been a blessing rather than a burden to her. Still, her heart is hammering in her chest when he retrieves another key from one of his pockets and finally bares this last part of his private sanctum to her.

Whatever her conscious mind might have imagined during her stay in this house—especially in the last few minutes—the sight that greets her eyes when the former businessman swings the door open is certainly not it. As he lingers on the threshold, still holding the handle in his hand, she slowly enters what turns out to be his most personal domain.

The room simply looks like a study at first glance, with bookshelves and a sturdy desk. But in this house, there is nothing ordinary about the large television screen on the wall—which is far from the only modern item he owns after all, as it turns out. And then, there are the large, neatly framed pictures hung all around the room: five of them, taking up a considerable amount of space.

Each and every one contains an almost life-size picture of herself.

Belle remembers every single one of these promotional photo shoots, but that doesn't even begin to explain what they're doing in Mr. Gold's house. The same goes for the boxes of DVD sets that she spots on the bookshelves. There are six of them, and before even taking a closer look at them, she already senses that they are the DVD collections of her television show that have been released so far.

Next to that are a whole lot of separate recordings, also on DVD, all of them labeled by hand with the date, channel and name of the show or interview she appeared in.

Not allowing herself to try and make sense of this before she has seen everything, Belle turns her attention to the clipping books on his desk next. They turn out to contain just about every printed interview she did and publication she was ever featured in, quite a few of which she had long forgotten about, all neatly sorted by year and source. There are pages of gossip magazines too, although he seems to have focused on the least vile of them.

No wonder that Mr. Gold sometimes seemed to know a lot more about the show than she thought then was likely—in fact, he might well have all the episodes memorized. It's hardly any more surprising that he was aware of the rumors regarding Will Scarlet and herself. Not to mention her trouble with Killian Jones.

For some reason, it appears that this redeemed, completely lonely man has been keeping track of every publicly known aspect of both her professional and private life. And except for a few slip-ups during the past three days, he hasn't made a single mention of that until she insisted on staying with him and expressed her interest in becoming involved in a relationship that would go far beyond the one of host and guest they had been sharing thus far.

Breathing heavily, she glances back at him, finding him still on the doorstep, his head bowed. He is holding on to the doorpost and his cane as though he were afraid he would collapse as soon as he let go. Standing there like that, he looks like the personification of absolute defeat.

There are so many things she wants to ask him, so many thoughts and feelings running through her mind, but she can't be hasty now. She has to make sense of this, if only for herself, before she can have an entirely open conversation with him and clarify their feelings and future once and for all—their past too, however one-sided that part of their relationship may mostly have been until three days ago, according to what she finds here.

Then there is a bundle of papers, that turns out to be a lovingly-bound collection of all the letters she has ever written him. It even includes her very first inquiry to him, which she sent more than five years ago. If the curled and worn edges of the plastic sleeves are any indication, he has frequently re-read her handwritten messages.

Seeing them all together like this, she's yet more aware of the gradual change of length and tone of these letters; from short, polite and business-like to pages-long and rather… well, flirtatious. Not that he noticed that, clearly—at least not consciously.

The last items of interest she finds on the bookshelves are a variety of ledgers. He nods when she glances back at him, prompting her to open them one by one. She comes upon a summary of his finances through the years, confirming his transition from a self-centered and lavish lifestyle to this much more humble one—almost all of his income going to the search of his son, charities, and…

Belle gasps when her eyes land by coincidence on an entry from two years ago—the transfer of a considerable sum of money, to a few people whose names are awfully familiar to her.

"It was  _you_ ," she gasps, abruptly turning back to Mr. Gold, where he still lingers just outside the room. " _You_  were the one who pressured my bosses to support my claim against Killian Jones."

"It was the right thing to do," is all he says to explain himself.

She's had many half-answers from him in the past weekend, many responses that didn't tell her anything at all. Before, it was almost part of his charm, his layers and mystery. Right now, however, she doesn't know how much more of it she can take.

The turmoil of emotions she went through in the past seventy-two hours catching up with her all at once, Belle is overcome with faintness, her knees buckling beneath her. She instinctively moves back towards his desk for support, but before she's halfway, she fears she won't make it and…

Before she can stumble, there is a pair of strong but ever so gentle arms around her, keeping her upright and supporting her as he guides her towards the piece of furniture after all.

"Careful, Miss French, I've got you," he whispers, the sheer concern in his voice a complete contrast to the mask of indifference he has been trying to maintain through their whole sleepover. "Do you need anything? I can fetch you a glass of water, if you like, or something to eat. Just name it."

She shakes her head, not quite able to speak just yet—now overtaken by his heady nearness, that makes her dizzy in an infinitely better way than she was a moment ago. He hoists her onto the desk so she won't need to rely on her legs for a moment, staying right next to her as she catches her breath.

"What I  _need_ is for you to tell me what is going on here," she tells him next, gesturing at the room and the very man who gathered all these pictures and information about her.

"This is all rather self-explanatory, isn't it?" he replies, sounding as if he were ashamed of this devoted collection—sounding like he has for the entire weekend, now that she thinks about it.

"I'd like to hear it from you," she answers, placing her index finger under his chin so she can lift it up gently, encouraging him to meet her gaze. "For the record, I'm not going anywhere."

Mr. Gold shakes his head, as if unable to believe that—but he remains where he is, right at her side. In addition to that, he doesn't let go of her, doesn't even try to look away this time.

"It started a few years ago," he begins after a long, heavy moment of silence. "Your first request that I host you in my house for your show was immediately rejected, as you know. And so was the second."

"And the third, and the fourth," she refreshes his memory as he falters.

"Indeed. But by the time I got your third request… I denied it as well, obviously, but… I got curious, despite myself, about your show… about  _you_."

Her eyes widen in realization, as she hadn't expected at all that his interest in her developed so early. Most of all, she's shocked by what this implies about his emotional investment in her program… in h _er._

"I asked Mr. Dove to get me some material of that show you were insisting for me to be on. I expected something… inane. Some _one_  inane. But instead…"

The way he is looking at her takes her breath away, his whole face alight with a reverence that goes far, far beyond the idolization of a fan—be it one of the overly obsessive kind or not.

"Your kindness, your gentleness… your wit, your  _beauty…_  I was intrigued within minutes of the first episode. By the end of the first season, not to mention the second and the third…"

He looks down again after all, as if wholly convinced that his feelings for her will bring the two of them nothing but misery.

"What?" she asks softly, tentatively twining her right hand in his hair to encourage him to continue talking.

"I fell in love with you long before I accepted your request and invited you into my house," he whispers as she begins to play with the soft strands at the nape of his neck.

Her hand falters at this admission, the true extent of his feelings taking her aback now that he's openly revealing them to her—despite all the hints he accidentally gave her over the past three days, now that she thinks back on them.

"But that was years ago," she breathes, continuing to touch his hair and neck—and longing to do so yet more than before.

"Yes. You requested an invitation once more. No matter how much I would have loved to have you here at this point, to properly get to know you… I couldn't face you, even for a moment, could I? Especially not for an entire weekend, in my own house. One glance would have given me away. All I could do was support you in the background—against Jones—so you would never know that I had lost my heart to you."

"But you did write back to me," she recalls, currently more eager to learn about the development of his feelings for her than to remind him that she has no objections against him whatsoever—quite the opposite.

"I must have burned five letters for every single one I did send," he admits, delighting her by closing his eyes and leaning into her hand, seemingly almost despite himself. "I told myself I would never send any of them, convinced that you wouldn't write back if I didn't accept your request anyway. But then I thought… it would have been the end of it, wouldn't it? You surely wouldn't have an interest in me beyond my appearing on your show. Except you did, and you sent me the first personal letter I had received in a long, long time."

"I was so thrilled when you actually wrote back," she remembers, smiling at the memory. "I mean, I didn't even realize that you still didn't want to invite me into your house at first. To get a letter, a  _handwritten_  one, from someone as mysterious as you… it was yet better than a good book."

"I couldn't believe that you responded, either; not once, but… well, not countless times, since I know only too well that I received a hundred and twenty-four letters from you. They're my most cherished possessions."

"Why am I not surprised that you kept track?" she smiles, overjoyed to see him very tentatively mirror her expression.

"Your letters gave me a reason to get up in the morning, something to focus on during the absence of my son. I was convinced that we would never meet in person, but our correspondence was enough to make me want to... well, to  _live_. It made me long to get to know you as best I could, to surround myself with things related to you, so as to compensate for not actually being able to spend time with you."

"What about that?" she asks, gesturing at the ledger with the proof that he anonymously supported her against Jones.

"You needed help, and you weren't getting it. Stepping in was the only thing I could do. I would much rather have blackmailed them, given my loathing of them for being unwilling to support you, but… I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't be that kind of person anymore, and I told myself that you wouldn't have approved of such tactics anyway. You're so kind, Miss French, so  _good…_ "

"I'm just me," she says, blushing, even though she feels like his compliment is completely exaggerated—if very,  _very_ lovely.

"You are so much more than anyone deserves," he whispers, trailing a single fingertip down her cheek.

"What made you invite me here after all?" she asks, shivering pleasantly at his touch, but unwilling to get distracted now that he's finally openly communicating with her.

"I couldn't  _not_ invite you any longer. I  _had_ to see you, if only because… I was certain that you couldn't possibly be as incredible as the woman I had created in my mind, this… this angel, this saint… this  _goddess_ , standing on a pedestal in my fantasies. I told myself that I could cure my obsession once and for all if I finally got to meet you… that it was the only way for me to move on."

"Did it work?" she inquires, breathless with his revelations so far.

"In part. I found out that you're stubborn and rather impatient, shockingly impulsive at times… but much more than that, I discovered that the screen doesn't do you justice, that you are  _at least_  as wonderful in real life as you were in my fantasies… not to mention the fact that you were finally, truly  _real_. Everything after that, every touch and every dance and every smile… it made me see that you are more amazing in real life than I could ever have imagined. Rather than getting over you, I only became more drawn to you with each additional hour you spent with me."

"I felt exactly the same."

"I couldn't have thought… the more you saw of me, the more I was convinced you would finally find something that would drive you away. But even after you came to know-and  _see-_ almost  _all_ of me, after my last attempt to make you see how unpleasant I really am…"

"So that wasn't an accident?" she brings out, her breath quickening when she thinks back on the moment she found him right outside her door, almost entirely naked.

"Of course not. After that incredible day we spent together, I needed…  _something_ to remind myself that there was no way it had all meant as much to you as it did to me… that  _I_ didn't mean as much to you as you do to me. So I paced near your room until you came out with a camera, like I knew you would… although your reaction was  _very_ different from what I'd anticipated."

"You looked  _incredible_ ," she comments, that sight still imprinted on her memory. "I almost dragged you into my room to… admire you properly."

"Even if you had, I probably still wouldn't have believed it," he replies, blushing.

"Do you believe it now?" Belle asks softly, purposefully, trailing her fingertips down his bicep.

"I think I do," he rasps, the lingering disbelief in his eyes turning into hopeful delight.


	29. Monday, 10.25 am

"During my very first night here, you said you didn't want a relationship with anyone," Belle notes, taken aback by the smallness of her own voice.

Her hand is still on Mr. Gold's arm, his gaze telling her that he won't resist at all if she were to make another attempt to get closer to him – quite the opposite. But especially now that they've made such progress in their relationship, she wants the two of them to be absolutely certain of where they stand together before trying to move forward again.

"I almost told you I didn't want a relationship with anyone  _but you_ ," he replies, looking sheepish and embarrassed at the same time.

"It would have spared us a lot of misunderstandings if you had," she points out, not ceasing the movements of her hand.

"Would it?" he asks in turn, still looking at her like he has no idea where he stands with her—or rather, like he can't possibly believe that his feelings aren't unrequited after all.

"Why do you think I kept writing you so often, even though I was quite certain that you would never actually grant the request I had made in the first place?"

"Because you were trying to change my mind?"

"Even if that had been true, why do you think I would have worked so hard to achieve that? Why do you think I might have been so keen on having a sleepover with you, if I hadn't been intrigued by you from the start?"

"I… you have a lot of sleepovers, Miss French. Surely you don't require feeling intrigued by people to spend time with them like that. Besides, I'm not nearly as well-known as most of them."

"You are definitely the most interesting one, if only  _because_  you kept turning me down at first. Besides, do you know how many people I have approached again after they refused to come the first time?"

"I've got no idea."

"Zero. You are the only person I've asked more than once."

"I… but that doesn't mean…"

"Really, Mr. Gold, is it truly so impossible for you to grasp that I enjoyed our correspondence as thoroughly as you did? Perhaps not exactly as much, but even before meeting you, I felt drawn to you too."

"You can do so much better than me. Why on earth would you…"

"You're the most honorable man I've ever met," she continues, silencing him with a not entirely playful tug on his long hair.

"I'm sorry that this is the case, Miss French, but surely that says more about the men you are usually surrounded by than about…"

"In addition to that, I think you are  _gorgeous_ , and kind, and generous, and gentle," she adds, pulling slightly more firmly at his hair, basking in the groan of pleasure she draws from him that way.

"But you can't possibly not  _mind_  about all of this," he carries on regardless, gesturing around them at all the material about her.

"Why not? It’s a bit… much, perhaps, but it's nothing inappropriate. In fact… especially after you spent almost the entire weekend pretending not to have any feelings for me at all… it's really rather nice to find out that you  _do_  love me in at least some ways, even though it would be more pleasant yet to hear it from you than the posters on your wall."

"So… where does that leave us?" he asks softly, sounding wonderfully hopeful.

"I'd say that leaves us right here," she replies, sliding her hand downwards from his neck to his chest, where she rests it right above his rapidly-beating heart. "You, and I, in the house that has started to feel like my home as well in the past few days."

"Home?" he echoes hoarsely, looking at her like all of his dreams are suddenly coming true. "Would you like to… stay?"

"I..." She falters, rather stunned that he would go from sheer refusal to express or show his feelings for her in any way to a willingness to invite her to move in with him.

"I didn't mean… I'm not asking you to leave everything behind just to… I was just thinking, maybe you would like to… I mean, not  _permanently—_ unless you want to, of course! What I'm trying to say, and very poorly so, is that… you can stay here, in this house, with me, for as long as you like."

"I'd love that," she beams at him, rather shocked that he can still become even less eloquent at this point.

"We could… perhaps we could start over again?" he suggests, his eyes bright with anticipation.

"It would be lovely," she replies, almost giddy at the prospect.

"In that case…"

He lets go of her, prompting her to withdraw her hand from him as well—only for him to go stand right in front of her.

"My name is Rum," he says softly, offering her his hand.

She's already reaching out to meet it with her own, but she momentarily pauses as she hears him introduce himself like this. She had gotten to the point of feeling increasingly certain she would never even know his actual first name, let alone get to use it herself. In fact, she was expecting him to introduce himself with his last name all over again, even if his motivations for having her here are thankfully a lot more transparent at this point.

"Would you like me to call you that?" she prods, immediately drawing a potential connection between the rather unorthodox first name and his abusive, alcoholic father.

"I would, yes," he confirms, looking more comfortable in reaction to her easy acceptance, especially when she takes his hand in hers after all.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Rum," she tells him, savoring the way his first name rolls off her lips.

"The feeling is entirely mutual, Belle," he murmurs, giving her a whole lot more to bask in again.

Holding on to each other, they exchange a bright grin—before he brings the back of her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. Her gasp of delight encouraging him, he presses his mouth to her skin again and again, as if he were making love to it.

Like even this most innocent of contacts didn't already leave her gasping, Mr. Gold— _Rum—_ turns his attention to her wrist next. She shudders in surprised delight when the feeling of his tongue against her pulse point has heat gathering between her thighs, the added sensation of his breath against her now-damp skin sending moisture pooling there as well.

"I love you," he states, still sounding somewhat uncertain, but also wholly relieved to be able to say this out loud—and that she’s reacting to his touches the way she is.

"I love you, too," she replies, although she doesn't entirely expect him to believe it this time, either.

Still, his whole face—almost his entire being—lights up at those words. Now she knows that  _this_ is what true relief looks like on him, all but transforming him into the man she supposes he would have been all along if it hadn't been for his far from fortunate life so far.

No matter how lovely it feels to have him kiss her hand, it is no longer nearly enough—not given how badly she has craved to experience physical intimacy with him since the first night she spent with him. As she withdraws her hand, he follows it, not seeming to realize they are moving until the top of his head is brushing against her chest.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" he begins, looking embarrassed again.

"Don't be sorry," she replies, carding her fingers through his hair, urging him closer.

Sensing that both their pair of legs are rather unreliable now, she guides the two of them closer towards the desk. She eagerly hops onto it, hoping that he will go to stand between her thighs. But as she spreads her legs and pulls up her skirt to accommodate him, he looks and steps away, his face turning red.

"Do you have any other suggestions on how to get close enough to kiss me?" she finds herself blurting out, her face adopting a shade not quite unlike his.

Rather than accidentally sending him fleeing again, this none too subtle request prompts him to step closer to her after all. Instead of getting between her legs, he opts to stand between the angle of the desk and her right outer thigh, which is also a very agreeable option to her.

"You want to  _kiss_  me?" he asks, as if that notion was utterly strange.

"I do, if  _you_  want to."

"I… I do, yes. Although I must warn you that I hardly have a clue what I'm doing, and…"

"Let's just find out what we like together, all right?" she suggests, turning her upper body towards him and twining her hands in that glorious hair of his again.

"I'd really like that, yes."

"Well then," she murmurs, leaning into him. "Why wait any longer?"

She sighs in sheer bliss when Rum closes the last distance between them and experimentally touches his lips to hers, gasping at the contact. He roughly exhales, his hands finding her waist in a blind search for something to anchor himself to, this fierce reaction to their chaste kiss leaving her moaning softly against his lips.

Belle winds her arms around his neck, pulling his chest as flush against her own as it can be in their position, caressing his hair at the same time—she is quite certain she will never get tired of playing with the soft strands. In turn, he locks his arms behind her back, pressing his mouth a bit more firmly to hers.

Just when she's thinking of trying to coax him into deepening their kiss, or finding a way underneath his many layers, she senses something hardening against her thigh. It only fully claims her attention when he abruptly withdraws, looking mortified.

"I'm sorry," he says again, lowering his gaze. "I know it's no excuse, but you feel so  _good_  and…"

"None of that," she shushes him gently, taking his hands in hers and licking her lips when she spots the bulge in his trousers that betrays his arousal, despite the very innocence of his kiss. "If anything, I'm very flattered that you’re reacting to me this way."

"You… you  _are_ ?!"

"I am. Very much."

"Still, you should know, you  _must_ know… I'm not good at any of this, and you should be aware up front that I'm bound to disapp…"

"Rum, let's get a few things straight," she interrupts him gently, saddened by how little faith he has in himself in this regard and wondering where this self-loathing is coming from.

"All right," he agrees, taking a deep breath—but maintaining the distance between them.

"You only invited me here because you wanted to get over your attraction to me, didn't you?"

"I did, yes," he confirms, clearly not liking the reminder, especially not as he doesn't know where this is going.

"We established that I don't mind at all that you did it for that reason, nor that you've been feeling the way you have about me, didn't we?"

"We did," he admits, relaxing a little after all.

"And didn't we also determine that I  _enjoyed_  what we did this morning, rather than being disappointed by it, or even hurt?"

"We did, yes," he repeats, his tentative smile a sight of beauty.

"How about we establish next—and preferably right now—that there's nothing to be afraid of or embarrassed about when we're together? Not even when we're touching, and when we're not fully dressed?"

"I… I believe you are being too optimistic about that, no matter how delightful I find that idea."

"I like to think that we cleared up a lot of misunderstandings today, that we're getting rather good at being optimistic together. Why not in this regard as well? After all, you are the complete opposite of men like Jones. That alone means that we will both be more than all right if we give this a try."

"If you don't mind giving me some directions…" he murmurs, glancing at her with unmistakable hope from beneath his lashes.

"Of course not, and I hope you will do the same."

"I'll show you whatever you like, but I can reassure you that my enjoyment is  _very_  straightforward."

"Who says mine isn't as well?" she asks, winking at him.

"Let's find out?" he suggests shyly, offering her his hand—and much to her delight, only sounding slightly disbelieving by now.

"Let's go to your bedroom," she beams, hopping off the table.

" _Yes_ ," he breathes, the way he subconsciously licks his lips and the still prominent presence at the front of his trousers almost winning over her desire to manage to get to a comfortable surface.

Still, one glance at his still rather doubtful expression reminds her that they have to go slow, that it will only be better in the end if they take their time to get fully at ease with each other at this point… and that both of them will probably very much enjoy a gradual and comfortable exploration.

She reminds herself that their destination is only a dozen yards from here or so as this time, they leave wide open the door to this previously hidden part of his house—of  _ him— _ and head back to his bedroom, hand in hand.


	30. Monday, 10.40 am

"I can barely believe that we're actually here, together, without the excuse of the sleepover," she sighs happily when they enter his bedroom, still holding hands.

"Don't get me started," he replies, smiling lovingly at her, although he appears rather tense once more. "You'll probably need to pinch me, sweetheart. All of this… it's like a dream. A  _perfect_  dream."

"What is it?" she says, her delight to be addressed by him like this fading as uncertainty comes over his face again.

"You don't mind if I call you that?" he asks as she reaches out for him again, caressing his upper arms in the hope of reassuring him—and, of course, because she wants to touch him as much and as often as possible, now that she finally can.

"Of course not! In fact, I  _enjoy_  it, just like the fact that I can finally use your first name now."

"I find both of those things wonderful as well," he confesses, beaming at her in that endearingly shy way of his.

"As for pinching… I intend to do a  _lot_  of things with you here, but pinching isn't necessarily one of them… or at least, not the kind of pinching you're probably thinking of."

"I'm afraid you'll have to do a lot of it then."

"Maybe this will help," she adds, spotting a very familiar item on the part of the unmade bed where she slept last night.

"What?" he asks, following her gaze, but not noticing the foil package—of which he might very well not even have realized it was there.

"When I came to you last night, I was hoping for more than a cuddle, no matter how delightful that turned out to be," she explains, bending over the bed to pick up the still-packaged condom.

"You were?!"

"I was," she confirms, holding out the object to him as evidence.

"What is it?" he asks as he examines it.

"It's a precaution for safe sex," she replies, not entirely surprised that he wouldn't recognize it, given the lack of experience he implied with regard to this particular subject. "I intended to use it with you last night. I'd love for us to do that  _right now—_ but of course, that wholly depends on how you feel about the idea."

She grins when he flushes at that prospect, managing to look very excited about it at the same time. But even now, that moment of sheer hope doesn't last long at all, and she can practically see the doubt blossom as it clouds his features again.

"It means the world to me that you're so understanding and patient, Belle. But you should really know in advance… I'm  _truly_  not good at any of this. I won't be… well, I  _will_ be disappointed if you realize that I'm a lost cause after all. But you don't owe me anything, especially after you've already been so very kind and generous towards me."

"Let's not get into this again, alright? We'll take things as slowly as you wish."

"I'd like that, yes. Because… I  _do_  want to be with you, sweetheart. So very much."

"I feel exactly the same," she beams at him, coaxing him to sit next to her on the edge of the bed.

"Will you tell me? When there's something you'd like me to do, and especially when there's something you  _don't_?"

"Of course. And I urge you to do the same."

"I… I will," he agrees, sounding rather surprised by the notion that this can go both ways. "I  _will_."

"Good," she murmurs, shifting closer to him. "In addition to that, I suggest we do get rid of at least some of our clothes already, so we won't be bothered by them later."

"I… appreciate the practicality, but I fear that seeing me in such a state, especially at a very early stage, will hardly increase the odds that we can get to a moment which will actually require me to wear so much less clothing to begin with."

"You impossible man," she sighs in affection and mild frustration alike once the meaning of that stream of words has dawned on her lust-addled brain. "Have you already forgotten that I  _have_  seen you already, and found the experience very pleasant to say the least? But if it's more to your liking, I'm very open to the possibility of taking some of  _my_ clothes off first."

Rum probably doesn't even realize that she's very deliberately distracting him, his jaw going slack at the mere prospect of seeing her in a state of even limited undress. He swallows audibly when she undoes the first button of her blouse, his fingers trembling when she takes his wrist in her hands and encourages him to do the rest of the job himself.

He moans at the first glimpse of her breasts, demurely contained in her bra. She smiles at his apparent inability to take his eyes off them as she shrugs the blouse off her shoulders, his reluctance to reach a similar state of nakedness seeming entirely forgotten.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to remove?" she inquires, not surprised when he shakes his head in denial and loving how unassuming he is, even now—coming across as so innocent, even while he's staring at her chest. "Or let me put it this way: is there anything else that might get in the way when we kiss and touch?"

He still doesn't seem to think of anything, but realizes what she's suggesting regardless when she subsequently guides his fingers to the zipper of her skirt. She prompts him to pull it down and slide the fabric down her legs once there's enough room to do so, leaving her in her underwear.

"Let me do the same for you?" she requests as she reaches for him as well.

He inclines his head, wordlessly telling her his answer as his eager gaze roams over her, unable to settle on one particular part of her body at this point.

"Why don't you show me what you would like me to take off of you?" she murmurs, smiling when he nods again eagerly.

"I don't know where to start…" he admits after another moment, when the implications of her question belatedly sink in.

"Come on," she encourages before insecurity can overtake him again. "Why not with something that wouldn't be very practical on a bed?"

"My shoes," he says immediately, triumphant, as if he'd just given the right answer to a question on a test.

"As good a start as any," she agrees, easily slipping off the bed to help him get rid of them.

"Sweetheart, you don't have to…" he mutters when she begins to pull at his laces.

"I  _want_  to," she answers, which luckily convinces him.

He watches her with wide eyes, and nods when she questioningly reaches for his socks as well. He's trembling again by the time she has bared his feet, twisting his damaged ankle away from her, as if afraid of what she might say or do when she sees it. Belle is having none of that.

"I love everything about you," she whispers, pressing her mouth against the scar tissue for a long moment before getting back to his side on the bed.

Rum looks yet more disbelieving than before at that, but he does help her get him out of his suit jacket. She frees him of his waistcoat next, her fingers fumbling with his cuff-links and tie. He watches her the whole time with dark, hooded eyes.

She pauses when his torso is only clad in a cotton undershirt, his lower half still fully dressed. It's not like he's looking  _decent_ by any means at this point, his body clearly very interested in these proceedings, even as his mind is doubtlessly telling him not to get ahead of himself.

"I guess there's no use in trying to conceal that any longer," he sighs, still sounding more embarrassed than anything to be aroused by her at all, let alone have her right there to witness it.

"Why would you want to continue hiding your desire for me?" she asks softly, caressing his face.

"We're sitting on my bed and you've taken half of my clothes off, and my body behaves as if… as if I'd given you at least  _some_  of all the pleasure you deserve… as if I even know  _how_."

"Well, I'm certain we can resolve that." No matter how much it pains her that he still thinks like this, at least it's a relief that he's worried about something she thinks they can figure out together. "There is no predefined order for any of this, Rum. We can do whatever we like, no matter how unorthodox it might seem at first, just as long as both of us are comfortable with it. I hope you'll agree that we shouldn't expect any issues with  _that_."

"Indeed," he breathes, looking a bit more hopeful.

"Do you think you will be more at ease once we've got that out of the way?" she asks, glancing meaningfully at the lingering presence at the front of his trousers.

"I will probably be able to think more clearly," he agrees automatically, looking alarmed when it suddenly dawns on him what she's suggesting. "But we can't possibly…  _begin_ with that!"

"I don't see why not," she says, settling right next to him, on her side. "But let's start slowly, alright? Just get a little used to each other."

"That sounds very lovely, and somewhat… manageable. If you are certain, if you don't mind that this is all about me…  _again…_ "

'Manageable' isn't quite the word she'd have used for any of this, but Belle can overlook that when looking for a path which will leave him feeling more comfortable with their current situation. Showing him that there's no harm at all in finding pleasure in turns is hardly a punishment, and it's a very nice bonus indeed that she gets to have her hands on him in the meantime.

"This is about both of us," she stresses, trailing her palm up and down his chest, the light touch causing his muscles to clench beneath her hand and the fabric of his undershirt as it draws deep groans from him. "I can assure you that I will enjoy this very much as well."

"In that case, if you really don't object, I suppose we should get rid of one more item of clothing."

She had quite forgotten about the formal trousers he is still wearing, delighted by how much of him is finally revealed—although it's still only more layers of fabric. It makes it better yet that it turns out there's another piece of him to uncover.

He's quivering as she undoes his belt and trousers, careful not to touch him where he is straining against the confines of the fabric—not yet, at least. Making certain to caress his hurt ankle when she slides the material down his legs, she is delighted that he no longer appears to be uncomfortable in this state.

Sitting next to him on the bed now that she has gotten him down to his underwear, she fears for a moment that her intent gaze will change that. But she simply can't help drinking in the sight of him, catching her lower lip between her teeth when her gaze zeroes in on his arousal. It's deliciously obscene to be finally allowed to see him like this, after he spent almost all their time together so far hiding from her in a variety of ways.

Belatedly realizing that her long silence and hungry gaze are probably making Rum uncomfortable, she is happier yet to find a tentative smile on his lips when she focuses her attention on his face again. In fact,  _he_  is the first whose eyes stray again, openly staring at her chest.

Giggling happily, she takes this chance to admire the rest of him properly. In addition to the currently most obvious part of his physique, his chest, arms and legs are also a delight to behold, not to mention his graceful hands. His biceps and thighs are the nicest she has ever seen, the sight made more delicious yet by the awareness that she will get to touch and cherish them. Not to mention his lean chest, that fills his undershirt much more nicely than she had expected, considering the many layers he favors wearing over it.

"Let's get you comfortable," she murmurs, before shyness and the resulting wariness can return to prevent them from exploring more of each other.

Then again, just looking at him would be more enjoyable than anything she's ever shared with anyone—but she wants to do so much more than that, now that she's with a man who will probably be able to make her feel a lot of things she's only ever read about so far. The peek she got at him when he sought her out while wearing nothing but a towel was mouth-watering enough, but this is something else entirely.

By the time she has supported his head with a pillow so he can easily look at her and glance down his own body at the same time, her hands are shaking with the excitement of what is to come. She's especially exhilarated when Rum takes her hand in his and places it on his abdomen in unspoken invitation.

"Do with me as you wish, sweetheart."


	31. Monday, 11.05 am

"Let's take this slowly," Belle says again, if only to remind herself.

She doesn't want to rush into this, now that she and Rum are finally in bed together again  _and_  finally in mutual awareness of their feelings for one another. But his explicit offer for her to do as she likes with him is one that's not easily ignored, no matter how momentarily, when his arousal is so clearly on display beneath the single layer of thin fabric that still covers his modesty.

Still, she  _almost_  forgets about that when she looks back at his gorgeous face. His eyes are yet warmer than before, his lips curved into a small smile. Clearly, their approach so far has done wonders for the tension that had been so clear there, almost for the whole of the weekend they spent together.

"I'd like to touch  _all_  of you," she breathes in addition to her previous remark.

Despite her determination to focus on his body as a whole for now, she doesn't miss the way she can practically see him twitch within the confines of his boxer shorts.

"I… I would very much enjoy touching you as well, sweetheart," he immediately replies, moving to sit up and reach for her, even after she just insisted they focus on him for the moment.

"You will. Soon. But let me take care of you first, all right?"

He nods in agreement and lies down again, watching her intently the whole time. Belle likes to think she can practically feel his eyes on her, like a warm caress.

"You're so incredibly beautiful," she murmurs, stroking his hair.

Only when even this chastest of touches has him shivering, breathlessly gasping her name, does she realize that she has spoken out loud.

"You  _are_. I don't ever want to stop doing this."

"Well, I wouldn't ask for that either, although it's beyond me why…"

Not wanting to hear another self-depreciating remark, Belle caresses his still partially clothed body in an attempt to distract him. The moan he lets out when she not quite accidentally brushes her fingertips against one of his nipples underneath his shirt informs her that she has succeeded.

Enchanted by how sensitive he is, she focuses on his chest for a while, marveling at his groans and grunts when she teases the buds. Between those sounds and the way this part of him also hardens beneath the rather tight fabric of his undershirt, Belle doesn't find herself as focused as she intended to be.

But as Rum smiles more widely at her, wholly relaxing under her hands, she knows that she doesn't have to be particularly careful any longer. Rather than having to make certain that she isn't spooking her in her enthusiasm, simply giving in to her instincts will suffice to guarantee a very worthwhile experience for the two of them at this point.

"This feels so good, sweetheart," he murmurs, her insides quivering when his eyes flutter closed.

"I'm glad," she replies, hardly able to decide where she wants to touch him next.

It's a rather obvious choice after all when her eyes fall on his surprisingly strong arms. Leaning over him, she slides her hands up and down his biceps, basking in the feeling of his taut muscles right beneath her palms. From the corner of her eye, she spots the way he braces his good leg on the mattress and thrusts his hips forward, clearly seeking friction, if only subconsciously.

Sensing that both of them are more than ready and don't want to wait any longer, she slides her right hand all the way down his body, purposefully missing by mere inches the spot where he most needs to be touched. Rum  _thrashes_ on the bed when she experimentally scratches his inner thighs lightly with her nails, watching in arousal as he arches his back.

"Oh yes, Belle,  _please…_ "

Although it's tempting to say the least to simply slip her hands into his boxer shorts, or take this last barrier off altogether so she can bring him completion right here and now, Belle doesn't give in to that urge. She expects that he will be worried and self-conscious about his stamina, but more than that she wants to savor what is to come in its own right.

Taking a deep breath—which hardly diminishes the fire burning in her veins—she places her right hand on his stomach. Their gazes locked, she slowly and very purposefully slips her fingers and palm under the edge of his undershirt, both of them inhaling sharply when she encounters the warm skin of his belly and the clenching muscles beneath.

Having never touched a man quite like this before, she takes a moment to get her bearings, smiling in exhilaration when she finds a trail of short, coarse hair leading downwards. Ignoring the urge to follow it for just a minute, she lingers right where she is, drawing invisible patterns on his sensitive skin with her index finger, dipping into his navel every once in a while.

Those touches alone have him all but sobbing with arousal, his hands clutching at the sheets. Barely able to imagine how much more intense his reactions might be when she's  _truly_  pleasuring him, Belle gradually relocates her ministrations downwards.

Still, she's taking her time, drawing this out—if only to learn as much about his body as she can, now that he finally and wholeheartedly welcomes her touches. No matter how much she longs to make him come undone as quickly as possible, to admire him in the throes of his passion, she likes to think that this outcome is a given at this point—and there is a whole lot to discover in the meantime.

Indeed, as it turns out, even stroking up and down from his navel to the edge of his boxer shorts has him whimpering. More than that, the bulge in said shorts is now of such a kind that she wonders how it doesn't simply tear them at the seams. It's beyond intoxicating to see the way even the lightest of touches visibly has him hardening yet further.

"Belle,  _please_ , touch me…"

She doesn't need to be told twice, despite this addictive and rather satisfying exploration. When she processes his tone and the way he twists his body towards her, she knows that she has achieved exactly the kind of sheer need and acceptance of his desire for her that she was aiming for.

"You could undo me with a single fingertip," he pants when she inches her index finger beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts.

"Does that bother you?" she asks, very much aware that his voice is filled with awe and trepidation alike.

"It terrifies me," he replies after a few seconds of harsh gasping, "but in a good way."

Her breathing is almost as quick as his, and she supposes that her heartbeat must be in a similar state, as she plays with the hair she finds during this new milestone of her exploration of him.

"Oh,  _Belle_ ," he sighs, finally fully embracing their feelings for one another.

"Tell me if you want me to speed this up," she says, despite her wish to discover yet more of him before bringing this to its inevitable end—for now.

"Take as long as you like," he pants, quickly opening his eyes to glance at her hand on him, so very close to his hardness.

She takes that as her cue to slide her palm up and down his inner thigh next, finding other places that make him groan and gasp, pushing himself more firmly into her hand in beautiful, wholly instinctive movements. She rests her head on his chest while she does so, delighted by his ever so gentle hands in her hair as she listens to his rapidly-beating heart.

Soon,  _she_  becomes the one who can't wait any longer. No matter how much she enjoys being so close to him, she opts to lie at his side again so both of them have an unrestricted view of his body and her hand as she slowly but surely moves it along his thigh, over his boxer shorts—until she's brushing her thumb against his length.

Rum all but arches off the mattress, crying out her name at this first hint of a touch right where he craves it the most. She, for her part, sharply inhales at this first proper encounter with the most obvious evidence of his arousal for her, hot and hard against her skin.

His eager reaction prompts her to repeat the action, and again, and again—applying a bit more pressure every time. He lightly grasps her hand in his own before she can make a fourth move; but rather than stopping her or encouraging her to touch him more firmly, he simply caresses her wrist, the sheer innocence of this completely belied by what she was just doing.

"You are  _killing_  me, sweetheart," he breathes, as if he couldn't imagine anything more delightful.

There's no doubt in her mind that he is very happy to just let her continue like this, not quite touching him as much as he needs, despite his conviction that she could undo him with a mere look. Still, there is something she thinks he will enjoy a lot more yet.

"Let's try this?" she asks, lightly cupping his length in her palm.

He sounds positively pained as she provides so much more friction than before, his face contorting with pleasure and his entire body twisting into her touch in a rather painful-looking manner. Rum all but  _howls_  at her move, all of it going straight to the part of her which is becoming particularly desperate for him.

"The way I see it, the sooner this might be over, the sooner we can start again—while having a better idea of what we are doing and what we really enjoy," she remarks, knowing only too well how self-conscious he is about this.

"Yes, Belle,  _please_ ," he brings out, not even seeming to hear her now that she's touching him like this, increasing the pressure of her own accord by moving her hand more firmly against him.

Rum bucks into her palm as she continues to stimulate him, liquid fire in her veins while she strokes him through the fabric of his boxer shorts. It's only a short while longer until every single muscle in his body appears to go taut, his eyes practically rolling to the back of his head, his entire frame convulsing as he brings out her name over and over again.

She lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding when he collapses back onto the mattress, a wide smile on his face while warm dampness spreads against the material, right beneath her palm.

"Thank you," he breathes, still lightly caressing her hand. "You will probably say that there's no need to tell you that, but…  _thank you_ , Belle, so very much. I can't even begin to…"

Still fondling him lightly, now that he's finally welcoming this, she doesn't want to talk at all for the time being. Especially since he is yet more relaxed and happy than when he was in a similar state this morning… but considerably more aware of her. Which is a good thing indeed, for she is quite certain that no amount of wonderful baths and her own determined fingers is going to get her what she needs without his involvement this time.

Wordlessly, she lies on her back next to him. He grasps her meaning before she can formulate it, shifting to his side in a similar position to the one she was just in, so close that their bodies are touching. He questioningly extends his hand to her and she takes it in her own, pressing it to her breasts without hesitation.

Rum looks practically cross-eyed as she shows him how she likes to be touched there, but now that his own desire isn't driving him to distraction, he is wholly focused on and attuned to her. Then again, no matter how much she would love for him to take his time with her like she just did with him, she doesn't want to wait any longer.

She wants his ministrations to become dedicated to only one particular part of her, and she wants that  _now_ , yet more than kisses and hugs and never-ending exploration of her whole body.

" _This_  is why I pushed your hand down this morning," she says, purposefully relocating said limb from her chest to the juncture of her thighs.

"You must think me such a fool. I don't know what's worse: that I was too far gone to realize what you were doing at the time, or that you have to show me like this in the first place. I can only hope that…"

His words turn into another gasp when she purposefully guides his palm between her legs, until he is cupping her barely-covered mound.

" _Sweetheart…_ " he mutters in sheer awe, no doubt feeling the wet heat there.

Never breaking their eye contact, she subsequently encourages him to slide his fingertips into her panties, until he is brushing them through her soaked folds and the yet more sensitive bud between them. He singles out the latter before she can do so for him, her first sharp intake of breath and throaty moan informing him of exactly what he has found.

Rum concentrates on that spot with all of his considerable focus, exactly like she hoped he would. Despite all his fears to the contrary, there is no mistaking how wonderful he makes her feel, his dark and intent eyes on her the whole time. He doesn't even blink, as if unwilling to miss the briefest moment of this.

Very soon, she is the one who is thrashing on the bed, clawing at the sheets, her body barely able to contain the pleasure he is giving her. It's building low in her belly, faster and more intense than she ever thought it could, even when imagining exactly such a scenario.

One particularly purposeful flicker of his middle finger has her all but sobbing his name, the dam inside of her bursting. Her thighs practically shattering his hand, her entire being trembles as her release washes over her, taking all of her last doubts regarding his commitment to their relationship right along with it.

When she comes back to earth somewhat and opens her eyes lazily, she can visually confirm what the continuing jolts between her legs were already implying: he is still touching her, alternating his gaze between her face and the spot where his hand disappears beneath her panties.

"Are there… are there any other things we could do together?" he asks hoarsely, his eyes lingering on her chest, though he appeared to mean to lock his gaze with hers again.

"Oh yes."

"Can we… right now?"

"Definitely."

"Show me?"

" _Yes_ ," she murmurs, very happily pulling him on top of her.


	32. Three months later

For the past six seasons, Belle hasn't failed to see a single episode of the show, either in Ruby's apartment or her own and always in the company of her friend. She hadn't been nervous to see the finished material on air and await the reactions for a long time.

Tonight couldn't be more different. She feels more at home than she's ever been, the company better than she could wish for, but she's not at either her own or Ruby's home. More than that, she's as skittish about the upcoming episode as if it were her own house that's going to be on national television, her own life about to be exposed and examined.

"Why are you so worried, sweetheart?" Rum asks, sitting next to her on the couch after pouring both of them a glass of tea.

"After invading people's lives for six years, I'm only starting to realize how intense it can be for them to see all of that back on the screen now that my own life is rather intimately entwined with that of the last of said individuals. Don't get me wrong, I know that the episode will be  _fine_ , especially since Ruby, you and I have gone over it so often. We had never checked and edited an episode nearly as extensively as this one. Still, it's rather…"

"It's a strange idea that so many people will see us on television like this," he adds when she falters, struggling for the right words.

"Exactly. Although I'm pleasantly surprised that you don't seem to mind at all."

"The prospect is rather daunting for me as well, but at the same time, it doesn't seem unpleasant in the slightest. After all, it's the best way to reach out to Neal I've had in years, if ever, and everyone will know the most wonderful person in the world has chosen to be with me."

"I'll make an optimist of you yet," she teases, marveling at how far he has come as she playfully bumps her shoulder into his.

"It's shockingly easy to be optimistic since you're sharing my lair with me," he retorts with a mischievous smile on his face, grandly gesturing at the house that has felt like home since the moment she first entered it. "Besides, no matter what the viewers might see tonight, we're still a step ahead of all of them."

"That we are," she agrees, smiling when he takes her hand, kissing her fourth finger and the engagement ring which has been residing there for a few days.

"I love you so much," he murmurs, his lips lingering, "I don't want to hide that."

"Neither do I."

"It's about to start," he adds, bringing her attention back to the television screen, which they have moved from his study to the living room.

Rum settles his head in her lap as the so familiar opening credits roll, marking the beginning of what is by far the most irregular episode of the show to date. It's surreal to say the least to witness the beginnings of their acquaintance, friendship and love all over again as they play out like this—all of it over the course of less than three days.

It's lovely to reminisce with him this way, freely expressing their love and desire even as their selves on the program are both still convinced that this could only lead to doom and heartache. Just like that, it isn't strange any longer to watch their episode on national television.

"I'm so glad that you decided to appear on the show," she sighs, not taking her eyes off the screen version of him.

"I'm so glad you wanted to be here at all, if only for three days. Not to mention the three months that followed."

"Never mind those three months," she answers, kissing him lightly, "it's the next three  _decades_  I'm looking forward to."

"So am I," he breathes, pressing his mouth more firmly against hers.

She beams, but just this once, she doesn't lose herself in him. Almost as if this happy outcome wasn't definite at this point, it feels like she can't stop watching the screen for more than a moment—not feeling entirely certain that the man and woman appearing there actually found their happy ending after the rather rocky start of their relationship, even now.

Still, as he sits up to embrace her tightly, there's no forgetting that they  _have_  just spent three beyond wonderful months together. In the first one, they barely left the house—or the bed, for that matter—at all. During the second month, they laid out the groundwork for the foundation of their own production company, enabling her to finally focus on the topics that truly matter to her, whereas Rum can indulge in the antiquity hunts he has become rather intrigued by behind the screen.

Then there was their third month together, at which point they'd at least gotten used to each other to the extent of being able to visit his country of birth without spending  _all_ of their time in a hotel room. She got to know about as much of his early life as she already did about his current existence by then, and during their final day there, he proposed.

"I still can't believe you stayed after your sleepover, sweetheart," her fiancé notes once the episode is over, his voice thick with the memory of those three days. "Not to mention that you agreed to marry me."

"You don't ever have to be alone again, Rum. And neither do I."

He smiles at her in that way that makes her swoon and prompts her to slant her lips over his, kissing him with a hunger that hasn't decreased in the past few months—quite the opposite. He returns the kiss with at least as much vigor, his hands roaming over her with an urgency she could only have dreamed of just after his very tentative approach to her in the early weeks of their relationship.

Belle has the presence of mind to switch off the television as soon as the episode has finished, the remote control just within reach as he breaks away for a moment, allowing both of them some much-needed air. Goosebumps rise all over her body at his meaningful gaze, the way he apparently unconsciously licks his lips setting her aflame.

In silent mutual agreement, they lunge for each other, shaking hands reaching for every item of clothing within reach as their mouths meet for another kiss, yet more eager than the one before. More by sheer luck than anything else, Rum relieves her of every last inch of fabric except for her underwear.

She hasn't come nearly as far with the material still covering him, his touches and kisses leaving her barely able to focus on anything else, as usual. Especially when he kneels on the plush carpet in front of the couch and begins to trail kisses down her neck and torso.

Belle sighs with bliss while his lips and tongue lavish her, his hands also coming into play as soon as he takes off her bra. He has given her pleasure she didn't know existed almost from the very beginning, and only got considerably better at it ever since.

As she stands briefly so he can slide her panties down her legs, she reaches for a large towel, placed on the armrest for exactly this purpose, and drapes it over the leather couch before she sits down again. As soon as she has done so, Rum takes hold of her legs to pull her closer to him, his purposeful smirk having her belly clenching before he has even touched her properly.

He can make her come undone with barely any effort at all, as both of them know by now, but he loves to take his time with her, drawing out their lovemaking more and more the longer they are together and the better they get to know one another's bodies.

She leans back and anchors both of her hands in her fiancé's hair, sighing in absolute delight as he nuzzles her thighs. Rather than moving higher when that leaves her gasping and moaning, he directs his attention to the inside of her knees. Hands caressing her lower legs, he revisits all the spots they discovered before—the ones that leave her quivering and begging for more.

She's a panting, dripping mess by the time Rum does direct his attention to where she most longs for it. The first swipe of his tongue along her folds has her crying out like it always does, prompting her to tighten her grasp on his hair and head, desperate for something to hold on to.

It gets better yet when he carefully slides his middle finger into her, his own groan of delight vibrating directly against her core. He licks and suckles, further fueling the fire within her. In the beginning, she would have feared that she simply couldn't take any more at such a point, but now she knows better.

That's why she nods breathlessly when he questioningly presses a second digit against her, sobbing his name as it joins his index finger, both of them crooking in a way that makes her see not entirely proverbial stars. No matter how much she would like the pleasure to keep building further, it only takes a few more seconds until her entire body convulses and her grasp tightens around his head and magical tongue.

She bonelessly falls back onto the couch, moaning as heat and bliss spread all through her, the wetness of her release coating his face. He continues his ministrations as she mewls with ecstasy, his groans of appreciation against her feeling yet better than before.

Belle knows by now that he'd be happy to forgo his own release if only he could improve hers. She's having none of that, wanting him to feel as good as she does. That's why she pulls none too playfully on his hair, urging him to get up.

As they have discussed this several times, he stands quickly and without protest, the disheveled sight of his equally aroused self only making her more eager for what is to come—for both of their sakes. It takes them but a few seconds to get him out of his trousers and boxer shorts, and she smiles up at him when his length finally springs free.

"Come here," she says as she scoots back on the couch, lying down comfortably.

Rum doesn't need to be told twice any longer, both of them groaning when he places himself between her spread legs. Even when he is settled snugly between her thighs, his first move is to kiss her breathless again, leaving her aching for him even more when she tastes herself on his lips.

"Are you ready, sweetheart?" he asks hoarsely when he breaks away from her lips at last, his breathing ragged.

"As ready as always," she beams at him, still pleased that he asks her this each and every time, despite the obvious answer. "Especially now that you're soon to be my husband."

Rum enters her with a single smooth thrust, both of them trembling and crying out for each other when he fills her. She wraps her legs tightly around his waist, heels digging into his buttocks to urge him on as she caresses his bare back with her hands.

He moves slowly, purposefully, despite the effort it costs him to do so. Still, Belle can't complain that he clings to his self-control in moments like these, each measured thrust hitting her exactly where it feels best. At least he's also obviously enjoying himself, whispering with reverence as he rests his forehead against hers, his look of concentration quickly turning into one of pure adoration and joy when he begins to lose his rhythm.

Although she's told him once that she doesn't expect this of him, especially after he already made her feel so very good mere moments ago, Rum makes a point of maneuvering his hand between their bodies, touching her right where she's still highly sensitive, already throbbing for him again.

Her nails dig into his shoulders as she clings to him, the delicious pressure increasing rapidly once more. He breathes almost unintelligible words of devotion and desire to her, making her feel better yet.

The increased pressure of his thumb has her flying over the edge for the second time, Rum following almost immediately as she flutters and clamps down around him. He groans her name as he goes taut above her, right after his hips have jerked into hers a few more times.

As always, it takes a deliciously long time for them to recover somewhat, the perspiration beginning to dry on their skins as he slides out of her. Rum kisses her lightly after he has cleaned her up, the chaste pressure of his lips against hers still making her swoon at this point.

Shoving away the damp towel beneath them as they stand on buckling legs, they get themselves tidied up before slipping into a pair of comfortable nightgowns, hers identical to the one he already owed. He wraps his arm around her as they settle back on the couch, and Belle is happy to lean back against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

She only realizes that they must have dozed off when her phone starts ringing, interrupting the very peaceful silence. Frowning to be called at this hour before recalling that the episode of the show that just aired is likely to rouse a lot of reactions, she reaches for her mobile where it lies on the nearby table.

"Hi, Ruby," she greets her friend, relieved to see her friend's name on the screen as she locks eyes with Rum, letting him know this way who is contacting her.

"Hi Belle. In case you're wondering, the response to the episode has been  _incredible_  so far, but that's not what I'm calling about. Is Gold with you?"

"He is," she confirms, still looking at her fiancé.

"A man who says he is called Neal Gold just contacted the studio. He asked me if he can speak to his father. And since you're the only one who seems to have the number of the phone Gold finally bought…"

Ruby's last words are lost on her when it dawns on her what is going on. She hoped that the episode would help reunite Rum and his son, but she could never have expected that it might happen so easily and so soon.

"Belle? Are you still there?"

"I am, yes! I can't believe this! Can you put the call through to my number?"

"No problem."

"I'll hand the phone to Rum. Give me a few seconds."

"Sure. Just let me know when you're ready."

Her fiancé looks at her in confusion, although he takes her phone immediately when she offers it to him.

"Ruby got contacted by someone who claims to be your son," she explains to him, his whole face lighting up like she knew it would—just as she imagined the worry that follows almost immediately. "She can put him through right now."

"My son," he whispers, looking rather pale all of a sudden. "After all these years…"

"It will be fine, I think," she replies, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. "He wouldn't call if he didn't want to get back in touch with you."

He doesn't look like he believes her, but at least he relaxes a little.

"Why don't you take the call and I'll wait for you upstairs?" she suggests, figuring that he may wish to speak to Neal on his own.

"Are you… I was hoping you would… stay with me? It will be easier if you are here. And I'd really like to… you're going to be my  _wife_ , sweetheart. You're as much a part of my life as he is."

"Of course," she answers, thrilled and honored that he wants to include her in this.

"Here we go," he murmurs, wrapping his arm around her again as she sits down next to him.

"All right, Ruby, can you put Neal through?"

"Yes. You guys ready for this?"

"Yes," Belle and Rum say in unison, "we are ready."


End file.
